TONES ON THE HARP: 



CHARLES CASHEL CONNOLLY. 




WASHINGTON : 

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, 
1861. 



PREFACE . 



It is a privilege universally conceded to those who offer a 
work to the public, to preface the same with an explanatory, 
or, more generally, an extenuating, clause. But I waive the 
privilege ; and will merely say, that if the substance of a book 
has not got the ring of pure metal, a preface stamp will never 
give it currency. 

THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS. 



Pagi. 
9 



Lay of the Winds 

At Leisure ....•••• 

Spring 

Sing me a Song 

Crossing the Ford 

At Sea 

To Elreen 

A Fragment 

Blue-eyed Mary ...••••• 

The Waif's Retrospect 

The Suicide . . . • 

Where are my Friends? 77 

Ode to a Sleeping Child 78 

Billy Jolly to his Wife Polly 81 

Epitaph on a Cat 83 

Sonnet 85 

Ode to my Heart 86 

Lyric of the Winds 88 



4G 
48 
50 
52 
53 
55 
57 
60 
63 
7! 



VI CONTENTS. 

Pagb. 

Lines .......... 91 

Impromptu 93 

Leman, the Sage 95 

Flowers 113 

To Anna 115 

Sonnet 117 

Love's own Clime 118 

The Dying Orphan's Lament 119 

They cost "Rocks" 121 

To a Friend 127 

A Child's Epitaph 128 

At Midnight 129 

That wild Beach where my own Cot stands . . 130 

Long Ago . . . . . . . . . .131 

Thoughts 134 

To Mannie 135 

My Heart seems like a Ruined Altar . . . 136 

In March 137 

The Plighted Maiden 138 

To Ella . ' 144 

Music 145 

To 147 

Thoughts while gazing on a Lily .... 148 

Daybreak 149 

To Mary 152 



CONTENTS. Vll 

Page. 

To a Belle 155 

To a Sleeping Girl . . 156 

Soxn 158 

lOLA ' .... 159 

Bong of the Warrior Bard l (jb 

168 



The Phantom 
Potomac . 
Soft Weather 



170 
172 



The Jilted Lover 1(G 

To a Coquette *- 1 ' 

At Anchor 180 

Memory 182 

I knew Her well when but a Child .... 184 

Think of Me 186 

The Link that Binds 188 

A Rhyme 189 

To 192 

The Two Brides 193 

Serenade 

Annie of Washington 196 

To 198 

Lines . . ■ . . • • • • % ■ ■ 200 



TONES ON THE HARP. 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 

'Tis sonibrous Night! the last in Autumn. Hark ! 
The winds are out ! List ! list to what they say ! 



' Tis a dreary night ! 
We have journeyed far, without moon or star, 

Since we left Daylight, 

In a dreary plight, 
In his dusky ear, in the west afar. 



10 TONES ON THE HARP. 

How reigns Night — black Night ! 

How her murky trail, 
Drenched with chilly rain, shroudeth sea and main ! 
Let us rest awhile, ere we further toil, 

This desolate night. 

Lo ! here is a light ! and some sorry wight 

Inditing his will, 

Or poor fellow's bill. 
Let's tap on his pane, and sing him a strain, 

Then wing it again. 



11. 



In a forest lorn, 

All shriveled and shorn, 
Where the trees stood stark in their naked bark- 
Yes, stood in the dark in their naked bark, 

All ragged and torn, 

We saw, as we passed, in a cavern vast, 
On a mossy bed, 
Poor old Autumn dead, 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 11 

With brown fallen leaves, and some withered sheaves, 
Supporting her head. 

'Neath her mildewed crown 
Were her tresses brown, in braids falling down, 

In negligent fold, 
Like a mourning veil, o'er her brow so pale, 

And her bosom cold. 

In her hand's repose, one lone autumn rose 

Lay slowly fading 

In the pervading 
Density of gloom of that silent tomb, 

Oblivion waiting; 

While a lornful wren, 
On an ivy stem, chirped a requiem; 
And a glow-worm's spark lit the sullen dark 

With a friendly gleam, 

Every now and then. 



12 TONES ON THE HARP. 



III. 



As along we sped, o'er a mountain's head, 
We tarried awhile with a robber vile, 

And shrieked through a hole — 
" Give back what you stole, 

And redeem thy soul !" 

When he, with a bang, woke up all his gang ; * 
Then quoth he, " A ghost, 
I'll swear by a host, 
Is behind this post, 

At that rather small round hole in the wall ! 

"And I'll bet a mark. 

Or tusk of a shark, 
'T is that pious lark, old Benjamin Ark, 

The minister's clerk, 
We stripped in the park, last night, in the dark ! 

i 

" He died, I am told, of a dreadful cold — 

Yes, died in the dark, 
Last night, in the park, 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 18 



That stingy old lark, fat Benjamin Ark, 
The minister's clerk." 



IV. 



We paused on the moor, 

Where a peasant poor 
Sat watching her child, as it died and smiled, 
And swept with our wings the iEolian strings 

At the cottage door. 

Ah! 'twas sad to hear that pale mother dear 
Sob sadly aloud, 
With her head low bowed, 

As close to her breast her wan babe she pressed, 
In its pallid shroud; 

And sad to behold the father enfold, 

In silent embrace, 
Pale mother and child, with an anguish wild, 

While his changing face 

Of a struggle told ; 



14 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And the quiv'ring lip, though he did not weep, 
Told of sorrow deep 
In the strong man's heart ; 
And the fitful start 

And the drooping head, that he inward bled. 



We next, at a door, where a miser hoar 
Sat counting his store of all potent ore, 

Knocked : we knocked right hard — * 
'T was bolted and barred — 
We shook till it jarred, 

And puffed, and prattled, and lisped, and tattled, 
Through chinks that rattled, 

Then chuckled outright; when he, in affright, 
Extinguished his mite 
Of dim glaring light, 

And hustled his gold in a wallet old 

With his nervous hand, his lean, hungry hand ; 



LAY OV THE WINDS. 15 

And it to his heart, 

a 

His poor, dwarfish heart, 
Hugged close, with a start ; 

While his ghoul-like eyes, his blear, famished eyes, 
Cast a greedy glare round his dwelling bare, 

Through the startled dust, 

All dense with the must 

Of fulsome old rust. 



VI. 



Then along we past 

To a castle vast, 
And swung in great state on its massive gate, 
And snapped our free wing at its mighty king, 

Then whistled a blast ; 

When, big in a pout, all burly and stout, 

The porter popped out 

From his cosy bed, 
With a night-cap red on his grizzly head, 

And leered all about. 



1G TONES ON THE HARP. 

Then forth came the whole, ('twas a mighty roll 

Of flesh, his body,) 
Iu a rolling gait, with protruding pate, 

Like a round " dody," 

Still eyeing the gate. 

" Well, well," muttered he, 
" I vow I can't see, for the life of me, 
A soul at the gate ; 
'Tis most strange to me what people could be 
Knocking here so late. 

" If robbers," quoth he, " or rebels ye be, 
I would, as a friend, advise ye extend, 
With a lively pace, 
Considerable space 
'Tween ye and this place." 

This much gravely said, 
We whisked from his head his old night-cap red, 

And hung it up high 
Ou the topmost branch of a walnut stanch 

That flourished hard by. 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 17 

Then, close to his ear, gave a rebel cheer, 

And tweaked his old nose — 

His ponderous nose — 

Full red as a rose, 
And shuffled a jig on his grizzly wig. 

He was a droll sight, 

And laughable quite, 

That lusty old wight, 
As, blinking, he stood, in a puzzled mood, 
His mouth rude in shape, wide open agape ; 

One hand on his head, 

And one on his paunch, 
His eye on the branch of the walnut stanch, 

Where his night-cap red 
Hung bobbing around, thirty feet from the ground. 

VII. 

On, still on, we sped, many leagues ahead, 
Over hill and plain, 
Through the pelting rain ; 



18 TONES ON THE HARP. 

When, weary of flight, we rested in sight 
Of an ancient fane. 

'Twas a queer old heap — 'twas oolong in shape, 
All rugged and brown, and looked like a frown 

On the hill it crowned, 

Or a spacious mound 

Where the shrouded sleep. 

As nearer we drew, 

Some mystery new 

Attracted our view ; 
And, pausing, we gazed, with wonder amazed, 
When we reached the base of that ancient place ; 

For there we beheld the graves that still held 

The dust of many ; 
Some marked with head-stones, and others cross-bones ; 

A few had tomb-stones, 

And some hadn't any. 

One epitaph read, " Here lies low the head 
Of one Jerry Broion, 



LAY OP THE WINDS. 19 

Who made a mistake — take heed for his sake. 
Each shortsighted clown 
Hot haste in his wake !" 

One grave newly made 'neath a hemlock's shade, 

Which grew on the grade 

Of a barren knoll — 
Where a raven croaked, wriggled, winked, and croaked, 

On a human skull — 

Had a black grave-stone, full smooth as a hone, 

On which was graven, 
In large, round letters — dark blood-red letters, 

Deep sunk in the stone, 

Black as the raven — 

" Here, prone 'neath the sod. 
Lies a loathsome clod : 
Fame, fame was its creed : it failed to succeed, 

When it cursed its God, 
And smothered its soul in fumes of charcoal!" 



20 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And two had these words 
On their pine head-boards, 
(They were white-pine boards,) 
Deep set in the ground of that barren mound — 
" They gambled for fame, but they lost the game I" 

And one, all alone by a long shin-bone, 

Had a square of tin 

('T was coffee-pot tin) 
At its lowly head, upon which we read, 
" A break down — caved in !" 

And some had, in verse, 
Just this couplet terse : 
" Essayed to go it, but could not come it !" 
While Time, all perverse, 
With his wing erased that on many traced. 

To us this seemed strange, for in all the wide range 
Of our roamings far, beneath sun or star, 

We never had had, 

On tomb of the dead, 

Such epitaphs read. 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 21 

Just here we observed, what luckily served 
To solve tbe mystery shrouding the history 

Of the dead that lay 

In the silent clay 

Round this cemet'ry : 

T was these words full plain, on a bull's-eye pane, 

Dingy and simple, 
Right over the door, the dark-looking door, 

Of the ancient fane : 
" This is Fame's Temple." 

Ah ! this, then, thought we, must certainly be 

That much vaunted goal, 

That glorious goal, 

Full many a soul, 
With ambition rife, struggles for through life, 

By the midnight lamp, 

In palace and camp, 

Cot and dungeon damp, 
Forgetting its God in its longings mad, 
To inhale a breath all pregnant with death. 



22 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Then close we advanced, and cautiously glanced 
In the door full scant, hung open aslant, 
Denoting much use, 
Or, maybe, abuse, 
For one hinge was loose. 

Not a soul was there, 
Save the doughty dame, the donor of fame, 

Thrown back with an air, 

In her easy chair, 
Calmly reposing, and soundly snoring. 

Thought we, now's the time to see the sublime ; 
So right in we slid, like a patent lid, 

Without fuss or sound, 

In that fane profound, 

And, hovering round, 

Set us to noting some things worth quoting, 
Concerning the dead, th' illustrious dead. 
And foremost of all, 
On the dark and tall, 
Dusky, cobwebbed wall. 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 23 

Hung huge battle blades of several grades, 

And quaint invention, 

With this inscription 
Plain written with gore, (it was human gore,) 
" All for Ambition!" 

And scattered all o'er 

The black, dusty floor, 

Was many a score 
Of scrolls stupendous with thoughts compendious, 
Traced by sages hoar in the coffined yore. 

And many volumes, with lengthy columns 

Of prose, rhyme, and verse, some profuse, some terse, 

On dear joys deterred, 

And bright hopes deferred, 

In long years interred. 

And many vast charts 
Of land and of sea, and planets that be 

In earth's canopy, 
Labeled, " Journeyed here for many a year, 

Until they broke their hearts !" 



24 TONES ON THE HARP. 

With statues and globes, philosophers' tubs, 

Quaint Parisian robes, 

Scales of bound'ries, 
Paintings and leather, huddled together, 

Labeled, " Some Sundries.'" 

Here our attention 
Was drawn with tension 
To the word invention, 
On a nutmeg box containing two clocks, 
Two patented clocks, with skeleton works. 

'T was labeled " Boyus" which rather got us, 
And set us thinking, roguishly thinking — 

'Twas a Yankee game 

Bamboozled the dame 

For a sprig of fame. 

Our vision was next on a case transfixed 

In wondering trance, 
Where a skeleton brown, all polished and brown, 

By the heels hung down 

From a doctor's lance. 



LAY OP THE WINDS. 25 

We looked overhead, 

And there we soon read, 

(Three times over, read,) 
In an oblong space o'er the doctor's lance, 
In the dove-tailed case, the rabbited case, 

Where the skeleton brown, 
All polished and brown, hung dangling down, 

'Thout flesh or leader — 
The word "Physician," o'er this inscription : 

" Potent grave feeder !" 

We next, on a shelf, 'moDg crockery and delf, 

Saw a decanter, 

Full to the stopper, 
Of what, we can't tell, but had a strong smell 

Of " Pat's eye-water." 

And, strange for belief, 

On that very shelf, 

'Mong crockery and delf, 
Next the decanter, was Tarn O'Shanter, 
With hair all shaggy, on his tailless Maggie. 



26 TONES ON THE HARI>. 

Right on a level, 

(Beneath Tam's level,) 
Lay Thomas Hood's " Shirt" — no, sir, but his sheet — 
That same one hauled in by Small-Pica Flynn, 

The printer's devil. 

While right along side ('twas the other side 

Of the decanter) 

The paunch we descried 
Of old Jack Falstaff, ensconced in fine calf, 

With the Wives of Windsor. 

And stranger still, sir, 
Hung on a gimlet, a patent gimlet, 

Was the Dane Hamlet ; — 

You're mistaken, sir — 
Never a Hamlet, but a queer tablet, 

With this inscription, 
Rough written with ink — 'twas indelible ink — 
Black, green, blue and pink— 
" My own Library, to keep me merry, 
And help digestion." 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 27 

By this you'll agree, 'tis most plain to see, 
That the doughty dame, the donor of fame, 

Takes kindly to laughing, 

And jovial quaffing, 

Instead of sighing. 

While thus observing, 
And deeply musing on thoughts amusing 

Of ambitious lore, 
And mortal weakness assuming greatness 

On this earthy shore, 

We noiselessly came where the drowsy dame 
Breathed a vast repose through her spacious nose ; 

Her mouth it was dumb, 

But her nose did hum 

With a racket, some. 

She was a gay lass, in negligent dress, 

All ruddy and fat, 
And tbo top of her nose, her bottle-shaped nose, 

A tinge of the rose 

Had truthfully caught. 



28 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Her mouth was a sight — 

'T was a great take in ; 
The hair on her head was a deep-dyed red ; 

Her eyebrows were white 
As the wen on her chin, and freckled her skin. 

Here the dame made a move we did not approve : 
Her arm with a swing she slapped on our wing 
With a gusty souse, 
Which caused us to sing 
" Yah, nix cum arouse I" 

And turn, twirl, and twist, 

And swell to a gust, 

And scoop up the dust, 
And toss it aloft on an old cockloft, 
Where the Wandering Jew bunked with Roderick Dhu. 

We now, with a dash, 

And a ringing crash, 

Which told of a smash, 
Pitched the nutmeg box, with its tickless clocks, 
In an iron pot; — 'twas Adam's old pot, 



LAY Or THE WINDS. 29 

That same one which cooked 

His pristine porrage, 

When he fell rebuked, 
After beardless Sin, with a boyish grin, 
Brought mortal knowledge from the Devil's College. 

Then casting a glance at the dame askance, 

We edged for the entrance, 

With motion askew, 
And paused on the threshold to see and behold 

What she'd say and do. 

When bolt up she sat in her quivering fat, 
And curried her eye (she had but one eye) 

With her " soggy " fist, 

And smothered a sigh 

In her panting breast. 

" Pooh ! pooh !" sputtered she, 

" It appears to me 
There really must be 
A tremendous dust, — the lungs in my chest 
Seem to fume and seethe, I can scarcely breathe. 



30 TONES ON THE HARP. 

"I wonder what noise, what racket, that was j 
I reckon 'tis but some dolt with a strut, 
Or lank-faced hobble, 
With toil bent double, 
Come for a bauble. 

" If so, let him wait. Halloo ! take a seat 
Outside of the door, where many before 
Have waited their fate!" 
She ceased ; and a snore 
Soon told of her state. 

VIII. 

Our pathway led next two high hills betwixt, 
Through a village small, 
Where one bare steeple 

Stood lonely and tall, the glory of all 
The pious people. 

All was hushed and still, 
Save a dosr that sat 



LAY OF TIIE WINDS. 31 

On a barn-door sill, expressing his will 

To a bob tailed eat 
Coiled up on a shed, high over his head ; 

And further along, may be a furlong 
Outside of the ville, so silent and still, 

A house stood alone, 

In shape like a cone, 

And built up of stone. 

We paused at the door 

A minute or more, 
And, listening, heard not a single word, 
But something like that to the purr of a cat, 

Or maybe a snore. 

Quoth we, let us see if entrance there be, 

At front or behind — which way we don't mind — 

To this odd dwelling. 

Within we may find 

Something worth telling. 



32 TONES ON THE ITARP. 

Then looking around, 
We very soon found, 
Eight feet from the ground, 
A window quite small, deep set in the wall, 
Where a broken pane, to keep out the rain, 

Was stuffed with a stocking, a long-legged stocking, 

A blue one at that — 

Now wasn't that flat, 

And woefully shocking, 
In this generation o' civilization? 

The stocking shoved in, we next followed in, 

And lit in the centre 
Of a feather bed, fastidiously spread 

On a quaint bedstead, 

An old time-tester. 

The first thing we found, 

On gazing around, 

In silence profound, 
With scrutiny keen, as well might have been, 
Was an old gray cat, which quietly sat 



LAY OP THE WINDS. 33 

On a dainty mat of curious plat, 

By an old arm chair, that was stuffed with hair, 

With just here and there 

A flaw and a tear, 

To tell of its wear. 

In this old arm chair slept a maiden spare, 

And Time with his frost 
Had sprinkled her hair ; she might have been fair, 

But that had long past 

With the things that were. 

Round her eyes and nose, in gloomy repose, 
Were lines like to those people call " crow's toes ;" 

And her lips, tucked in 

'Tween her nose and chin, 

Were sallow and thin. 

Her stiff arms hung down close to her starched gown, 

Making it plain to see 
That she ne'er fondled, nor proudly dandled, 

A babe on her knee, 

With a mother's glee. 
3 



34 TONES ON THE HARP. 

For mothers will rest 
With their dear arms pressed, 
All lovingly pressed, 
On their bosoms fond, in a dreamy bond, 
Though the loved one lie cold 'neath the silent mould. 

Ah ! 'tis sweet to gaze on the joy that plays 
In a mother's smile, when fond dreams beguile, 

And the lost ones dear 

Seem still dwelling here 

On this earthly sphere. 

The next thing our ken 

Beheld was a green 
Parrot, on a swing, her head 'neath her wing, 
Bobbing to and fro, neither fast nor slow, 

But the two between. 

On a round table, that stood next the gable, 

"We noticed some meat — 
A chunk of fat pork — one knife, and one fork, 

One cup, and one plate, 

Two pickles, one beet. 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 60 

I 

Doughnuts a dozen — 
There might have been two — and a caddy blue, 

Lettered " Young Hyson," 

Stood by its cousin, 
A small teapot, much the color of soot. 

Here the maid grew restless, 
Woke, or partly so, twisted to and fro, 

And scratched her elbow, 
Rubbed her chin, and squeezed her nostrils and sneezed, 

Then became listless ', 

Then wriggled anon, winced awry, and spun 

Around in her chair, 
And then clutched and clung, and twisted and flung, 

And frizzled and wrung 

Her thin faded hair ; 

While her lips grew white as a death -bed sheet, 

Then a faintish blue, 

Then red as a beet, 
Then lisped and mumbled, puckered and fumbled, 

With motion askew, 



36 TONES ON THE HARP. 

As if some vision, 

Some dreadful vision, 
Of the night-mare kind, encompassed her mind, 

And came in collision 
With the pivot where swung her voluble tongue. 

Then, in a hurry, pregnant with flurry, 

Right up on her feet 
Straightway she started, and round the room darted 

Like a winged fury' 

Full "two-forty" fleet ; 

When we to her side in pity did glide, 

And lustily cried 
"Hallo! hallo, there !" 
When wide open flew her eyes rather blue, 

With a wrathful stare. 

Here the old gray cat sprung clear off the mat, 

Her eyes flashing fire, 

Her teeth gritting ire, 
Her back in a curve, distended each nerve 

Taught and tough as wire ; 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 37 

Her tliin ears tucked back, 

Each hair as a tack 

Erect on her back, 
Her sides deep panting, her tail wide flaunting, 
Loud in her throttle the growl of battle. 

While the parrot sang, in a nasal twang, 

With her mimic tongue, 
" Miss Dorothy's young ! 

Miss Dorothy's young ! 
Bad liar! liar! murder! murder! fire!" 

Now the maid grew calm, 
And rubbing her nose, her long, pointed nose, 

With her fleshless palm, 
And scratching her heels with the long sharp nails 

Of her crooked toes, 

Thus spake : " Me ! ah, me ! 
It's quite too bad what a dream I've had; 

And I'm downright glad 

My mind is now free 
Of that vile vision, that awful vision. 



38 TONES ON THE HARP. 

" Methought a monster, a horrid monster, 
Of the masculine brood, by my side there stood, 
With arms extending, 
And body bending, 
Towards me tending. 

" His face was quite bare, save his lip, and there 
Was a tuft of hair 
Like a rabbit's tail, 
All smeared, like the trail of a filthy snail, 
With the froth of ale. 

" My white hand he grasped, my small waist he clasped, 
Then smiling, he said :» 'My beautiful maid, 
Let us taste the bliss, 
The ambrosial bliss, 
Of affection's kiss.' 

" His head then bending, straightway intending 
To sully the tips of my virgin lips, 
While his eyes ablaze 
With a burning haze, 
Did upon me gaze. 



LAY OP THE WINDS. 39 

" Wretch ! wretch ! man ! I cried — avaunt ! quit uiy side ! 
I detest you all, 
Fat, lean, great, and small, 
Medium, short, and tall, 
Old, young, dark, and light; away! leave my sight! 

" Then, struggling, I broke from the loathsome yoke 
Of his fond embrace, 
And running apace, 
Till somebody spoke, when wide I awoke — 
Thus ended the case." 



IX. 



On, still on we past, with a lusty blast 

Now sweeping the plain, 

Now skimming the main, 
There twisting the waves, the wild, heaving waves, 

In a foamy chain, 

And tossing the bark, 
The shivering bark, 



40 TONES ON THE HARP. 

On the billows dark, 
And dashing the spray from her pathless way 
In vast hazy clouds on her wailing shrouds. 

And we softly told a brave seaman old, 

Whose thin locks were gray as the ocean's spray, 

That his dear wife died 

Since he left her side, 

And the old man cried. 

And we glad news told a young seaman bold, 
Of his fair young bride, and his eye looked pride, 

And he breathed a prayer 

That heaven would care 

For his Mary dear. 

And we scooped a grave 

In a rolling wave, 

For a seaman brave, 
Who fell from the mast as we shoreward past, 
And the sad news bore to his home on shore. 



LAY 01? THE WINDS. 41 



X. 



Once again on land, our broad wings expand, 
Shaking shriveled trees, 
Heaping faded leaves 
On the tombless graves 

Of the humble dead, as along we sped. 

Then, weary of toil, we tarried awhile 
At a cot which stood by a tiny flood, 
That rippled along, 
With a mellow song, 
Hills and dales among, 

From the granite dome of its mountain home, 
To the throbbing sea, 
Limpid, wild, and free, 
I' sweet monotony — 

A lovely poem in creation's tome. 

'Twas a cosy cot, 

And had pitched its lot 

On a lovely sput 



12 TONES ON THE HARP. 

'Neath an aged tree — 'twas an old oak tree — 
And a loving vine round its door did twine, 

And it looked right sad, for its leaves all had 
Fallen in the tomb of the summer's bloom, 

And some rose leaves lay, 

In a deep decay, 

On the threshold gray. 

While observing this, a noise like a hiss 

We heard in the cot ; — thought we, what's that ? 

There's something amiss 

In the cot, we guess; 

Let's see what's the muss. 

The door stood open, which gave sure token, 

That some wily chap 
Had been sparking late, some gentle inmate 

Who dreaded the clap 

Of a door shut tight ; 

When the old folks deem 
That she's snug in bed, with her dear - 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 43 

Filled up with some dream, 
Some innocent dream 
Of virgin or saint — just the time it ain't. 

So right in we stept, and noiselessly crept 

To a half closed door, 
When again that sound, that same hiss like sound, 

"Which we heard before, 

Outside of the door, 

Came plump, with a bound, all lusty and round, . 

Through the half closed door, 

Where somebody slept, 

We knew by the snore ; 
When straight in we peeped, and there, snugly heaped, 

Lay an old man and wife, 

A sleeping for life, 
And dreaming, no doubt, of bright days gone out, 

When Youth on his fife 
Played love in their hearts, and sped Cupid's darts. 



44 TONES ON THE HARP. 

For they low stuttered, and hugged, and sputtered 

Such flabby nonsense, 
As beardless lovers — some call them " lubbers" — 

Are likely to mince 

In the first instance. 

While noting their bliss, a loud fizzing kiss 

The old man just placed, 

In blundering haste, 

And very bad taste, 
On the full grown nose of his drowsy spouse. 

And this was the noise, that same hiss like noise, 

We heard when outside, 

And took for a muss ; 
There was naught amiss, and red-cheeked bliss 

Seemed there to abide. 

As we turned to go, there came soft and low 

A sound like a sigh 

From a room hard by, 
When right short we stopped, and in the room popped, 

Where we did espy, 



LAY OF THE WINDS. 45 

In a curtained bed, the lovely young head 

Of a lass asleep ; 
And we raised the hair, the glossy brown hair, 

From her forehead fair, 

With a gentle sweep ; 

And lingered awhile, 

Just a little while, 
Observing the smile, the bewitching smile, 

That hovered the while 
On the red, red tips of her pouting lips. 

Yes, and you kissed her, I'll lay a wager ! 

What ! we — we kiss her ! 

Oh, you vile sinner ! 
We kiss her ! — no, sir — we never — never 

Thought of kissing her ! 

And now, sorry wight, we'll leave you to-night ; 

And maybe again, 

Some other dark night, 
We'll tap on your pane, and sing you a strain. 

We s:o ! we so ! Good night ! • 



46 TONES ON THE HARP. 



AT LEISURE. 

Yonder, where the ivy-hooded tower 

A dim, twilight, lessening shadow flings 
Across the ruined and deserted bower, 

And the hoarse raven shakes her midnight wings- 
There will I stray, and on some mound recline, 

To watch pale eve, low in the fading west, 
Her trust of earth to brown hair'd Night resign, 

And drop to sleep upon her ample breast. 

Lo ! Night reigns ! How fair in every feature, 

From her cerulean couch, the Pride of Night ! 

Young Luna smiles upon tranquil Nature, 
f 
And waking stars wink their soft eyes of light. 



AT LEISURE. 47 

Behold the old ivy-hooded tower, 

Wrapt in hazy glory, and glistening 
Beneath a noiseless, downfalling shower 

Of dew-drops, bright as diamonds sparkling. 

Each drooping leaf, spray, and flower is still, 
Save when, from the mild zephyr's wooing kiss, 

They bow their sinless heads with bashful skill, 
And silent tremble with a holy bliss. 

Each sobbing streamlet and each purling brook 

Mirrors the open planetary tome 
In their spotless crystalline hearts, and look 

Like fair, silver-clasped ringlets as they roam 

Softly along their autumn-braided banks, 

Girdling, and caressing, and kissing 
Each old moss-clad veteran rock which flanks 

Their pebbled course in all its meandering. 



48 TONES ON THE HARP. 



SPRING . 

ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 

Young buds are springing 
From mould in the vale ; 

Streamlets are singing 
Through meadow and dale ; 

And the proud forests nod 
Their leaf-plumed heads 
To the flowering beds 

On their mother sod. 

Friend of my heart, why sad ? 
'Tis Winter no more — 
Cold Winter is o'er — 

Friend of my heart, be glad ! 

Soft winds are flying 
On balm-laden wing ; 



SPRING. 49 



Glad birds are singing 
Their lyric of Spring ; 

And white cloudlets lie 
Cradled at rest 
In the blue bending west, 

In the mellow sky. 

Friend of my heart, why sad ? 
Cold Winter is fled, 
Old Winter is dead — 

Friend of my heart, be glad ! 



50 TONES ON THE HARP. 



SING ME A SONG. 

Sing me a song, a low, sad song, love, 
And let thy accents tremble, 
And the tone of thy voice resemble 

The all mournful cadence, love, 
Of the winds at twilight grieving, 
Of the winds lornfully wailing, 

In a cypress forest, love ! 

4 

Sing me a song, a low, sad song, love, 
Of youth who low reposes, 
'Neath a mound of faded roses, 

In the arms of the past, love ; 
For my heart is lonely beating, 
For my heart is sadly thinking 

Of boyhood passed away, love ! 



SING ME A SONG. 51 

Sing rue a song, a low, sad song, love, 

Of those who fondly loved us, 

Of the friends who walked beside us, 
Looking joy, hand in hand, love, 

In life's budding, blushing bower, 

In life's sunny morning hour, 
That will dawn nevermore, love ! 



52 TONES ON THE HARP. 



CROSSING THE FORD. 

Yes, here the stream is clearest, 
Lean on my bosom, dearest, 
Now step firmly, fairest, 
On that ancient rock nearest 
The glad wave. 

Nay, tremble not for me, love, 
For by that sweet cooing dove, 
On yon leafy tree above, 
Making Nature's tender love 
To its mate, 

I will brave the torrent cold, 
With all cautious step, yet bold, 
While I tenderly infold 
Thy most chaste and precious mould 
To my heart. 



AT SEA. 



AT SEA. 

When wintry blast sweeps chill and fast 

Creation o'er, 
And drives each " mast" on ocean cast 

From shore to shore, 

God save the " tar" who from afar 

Looks to his land, 
And becks Hope's star from drifting spar 

With trembling hand. 

His bride may stand by the wild strand 

With pallid cheek 
And outstretched hand with pressure bland 

To clasp his neck. 

Oh! hear her cries, thou God allwise 
And merciful : 



54 TONES ON THE HARP. 

To her sad eyes the big tears rise — 
Ah ! how mournful ! 

Go, lisp, oh, wind ! with accents kind, 

In his sad ear, 
These words, destined to cheer his mind 

And banish fear : 

" God heard thy bride when loud she cried 
To Him in prayer, 
To save her pride — her husband tried — 
Long loved and dear ! 

" And bade us waft that white- winged craft 
Skimming o'er the sea, 
One league abaft thy wave-lapped raft, 
To succor thee !" 



TO KLHEEN. 55 



TO EL11EEN. 

I murmur not at fate's decree, 
That we shall never meet again ; 

Far, far between bounds the blue sea, 
And mountain vast and desert plain ! 

There was a time, to think of this 

My soul would faint upon each thought ; 

But now it seems a kind of bliss, 

With pain and pleasure strangely fraught. 

Since thou hast fled that sacred vow, 
Long plighted before high heaven ; — 

Great God ! that thought is woe ! oh, how 
Canst thou, hope to be forgiven ? 



56 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Farewell ! ah, me ! yet sad the voice 
That speaks within my blighted heart ; 

But let it be — 't is done — thy choice 
Is made — we dwell, for aye, apart ! 

I will not mar thy dream of rest 

With sighs or words of perish'd love ; 

Let time, array'd in sorrow's vest, 

And ruder tongues than mine, reprove. 



A FRAGMENT. 57 



A FRACxMENT. 

I stood, as stands the pilgrim stranger 

Of another clime ; unknown I stood 

Within Columbia's Capitol. 

I saw her populace, as billows 

On a turbid ocean, flow in ; each 

Brow with purpose bent, and pale with keen 

Intent. 

Anon the multitude hushed 
To silence were, and listening hung. 
Each eye deep burning and intently 
Fixed, looked on the forum of the free, 
Where sat convened th' representatives 
Of Columbia's stars. 

Then rose the voice 
Of States, and the issue seemed not for 
The welfare of the Federal bond, 
But of section, party, and color. 



58 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And there was discord and contention, 
And Freedom stood " a house divided 
Against itself." 

The North, firm as the rock 
Her Pilgrims blessed of yore, calmly stood 
And pale; and strife, with cloudy front, sat 
Heavy on her knitted brow, and taunts 
Were on her lip. 

The South, proud mother 
Of Liberty's anointed chieftain, 
Mother of Presidents and a long 
Line of heroes, first in war and first 
In eloquence, shook her dusky locks, 
While her eye, hot as her burning suns, 
Flashed back defiance. And 'mid the jar 
Of jostled argument, and the clash 
Of angry eloquence, and the croak 
Of " ism," husky with the jaded 
Strife of party, big with corruption, 
And rotten to the core, I heard, loud 
Toned above the din tumultuous, the tongue 
Of Treason and Disunion ! 



A FRAGMENT. 59 

There was 
A pause, a dreadful pause, nor motion 
Save the quiver of pale, parted lips, 
And the gleam of teeth hard shut, and the flash 
Of eyes indignant ; nor sound save like 
The hiss of breakers on a rugged 
Shore hard breathing spoke existence. 

Then, with a start, the people, as a forest 
Pressed by might of tempest, a moment 
Swayed and bent, and with an impulse grand, 
As of one mighty heart, the vast cry 
Of " Shame! Statesmen! Shame!" rose awful, 
And shook Columbia's Capitol ! 



GO TONES ON THE HARP. 



BLUE-EYED MARY. 

'Twas in Spring-time, joyous Spring-time, 

I first met sweet blue-eyed Mary, 
On the banks of fair Potomac. 

Blithe was she, the lovely Mary ; 
On her cheek a rosy dimple, 

In her hand a floweret fair ; 
With the fragrant winds of twilight, 

Rippling free the chesnut hair 
Of the winning blue-eyed Mary ! 

'Twas in Summer, hopeful Summer, 
I first wooed sweet blue-eyed Mary, 

On the banks of fair Potomac. 
Shy was she, the modest Mary ; 

On her cheek a bashful crimson, 
Her little hand caressed in mine, 



BLUE-EYED MARY. 61 

Falling low her chesnut ringlets ; 

Heard my heart a faltering " Thine," 
From the lips of blue-eyed Mary ! 

'Twas in Autumn, happy Autumn, 

I first wed sweet blue-eyed Mary, 
On the banks of fair Potomac. 

Dear was she, my loving Mary j 
On her lip a smiling whisper, 

On her cheek a summer glory, 
In her eye a beam of love-light, 

Told my heart a happy story 
Of my own, my blue-eyed Mary ! 

'Twas in Winter, joyless Winter, 

I first wept my blue-eyed Mary, 
On the banks of fair Potomac. 

Pale was she, my dying Mary ; 
From her lip the smile departed, 

From her cheek the summer glory, 
In her eye the fading love-light 

Told my heart a mournful story 
Of my sainted blue-eyed Mary ! 



62 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Now I wander, weary wander, 

All the seasons, sad and dreary, 
On the banks of fair Potomac, 

Calling on my silent Mary; 
Longing still for death to hasten, 

And the ties of earth dissever, 
Sc I quit this house of mourning, 

And rejoice in bliss forever, 
With my own, my blue-eyed Mary ! 



the waif's retrospect. 63 



THE WAIF'S RETROSPECT, 



'T is night ! — midnight ! an Autumn midnight, damp. 

Darkness, musty, sits in sullen silence, 

'Midst brown and withered leaves, upon the grave 

Of Summer and its hopes, shadowing earth 

With the falling locks from her mildewed hair; 

Nor from high heaven's arc peers there a moon 

Or star into the vast of pulseless blackness. 

In slumber deep I would shut out the night, 
But cannot. I sit and rock the throbbing 
Vein and aching nerve of being, and gaze 
Intent, through eyelids closed, along the dim 
Seen track of footprints left in other days 
On childhood's path ; and as the wand of thought strikes 
The sepulchre of memory, and rakes 



64 TONES ON THE HARP. 

The ashy film from off the mouldering past, 

I see arise the wan and palsied ghosts 

Of buried years ! Would it were tenantlcss ! 



II. 



I stand, or seem to stand, where oft I stood 

In orphan boyhood. Lorn I stand upon 

The cliff that beetles o'er the " Dead-Man's Cave," 

Where Atlantic's tide in peaceful moments 

Slumber'^ whose dusky base for ages past 

Has withstood the shock of waters scooped from 

Old ocean's depth, high piled in rolling hills, 

And heaved dark green, foaming, and furious, 

I>y fierce and mighty winds, bearing no scar 

Of ocean nor of tempest's rage. I gaze 

Far out upon the expanse of waters, 

High ridged with swells of sullen front and brow, 

Thick wreathed with wrathful froth, or calm as dream 

Of slumbering virgin, mirroring forth 

The rainbow, a miracle of its God, 

And mark the freighted bark, like a tiny 

Speck, by distance fixed against the far off 



the waif's retrospect. 65 

Slanting rim of vision, and sigh to be 

Of her, and marvel much what aspect hath 

In other climes, and long to roam therein ; 

Or, listless, stretch me on the fallow bint, 

And hail the shifting clouds — creating there 

A boyish world ; or, lulled to sleep by sob 

Of fretful ripples, or dash of breakers 

Panting with the pulse of storm, I vision 

Of sunny lands, with balmy winds, and skies 

Serene, deep fringed with amber-tinted clouds, 

And streamers tipped with wavy gold, and rays 

Of never-failing day, and scenes how fair, 

Of blooming hills and glades and tuneful streams, 

And cities peopled with congenial kind, 

And forms of love and melody and joy — 

All offsprings of a lone and yearning heart ! 



in. 



I turn, as of yore, and yonder, beneath 

The low descending sun, stand the Abbey's 

Brown and crumbling walls, where ivy creeps 

And twines a garland green o'er the hallowed 
5 



66 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Dust of my forefathers and their offspring. 

Ah ! there rests a parent dear — my mother 

Fond — whose spirit fled while I, unconscious 

Of the light gone out — the love forever 

Gone — the treasure lost — dropped no mourning tear; 

Or, if I did, 'twas but a simple child's : — 

Of that my memory holds no record, 

Nor shadowy lineament of her face 

Nor form. 'T is said she was of comely mould, 

With flaxen hair of wavy wealth, and eyes 

Of fondest blue, and loved her boy full well ! 

And there are graves whose shrouded occupants 
I honored not, nor do I now. Perchance 
The feeling is merciless, unholy — 
But not unmerited. Youth, when slighted, 
Has in it a bitterness instilled which 
Grows apace with age, and takes, in manhood, 
Haply of gloom, a deeper shade and shape, 
And tone more isolated, entombing 
The shivering heart of blasted sympathy 
In a realm of dusk grim phantoms peopled, 
E,ayless and void of peace, or hope, or tone 
Of joyous cadence, as that which fasting 



the waif's retrospect. 67 

Hermits wisely pass their terrestrial 
Span in solitude telling beads to shun. 

My nature was to love, and kind ; and my 
Heart's tide did rush all glowing to mingle 
With congenial floods, but found none, when 
It did ebb, chilled, nor flowed again — but has 
Become a glacier cold which knows no thaw. 

But let the dead slumber. I have triumphed 
And outlived them all, though still young in years ! 
But ah, how sear in heart ! Meseems I hear 
The clank, clank, clank of years, as from the wheel 
Of Time they drop into the past, and feel 
Their weight, weight, weight, down crush my groaning 
heart. 

— There rest my kindred — many, but not all. 
Some sleep in other lands, where freemen dwell. 
I, too, perhaps, may slumber there. In them 
I've wandered long, with friendship kind, and love 
Them well, and deem it honor high to fill 
A freeman's grave. Yet I would lay my earth 
"With my foresires in mine own land — the land 
Where I was born ; though Freedom hath no voice 
Nor temple there, but bondage dwells, and tears 



68 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Fall fast, and wo is on the passing breeze ! 
Can man do less than love his native clay ? 



IV. 



I wander, as of yore. My steps incline 

To the wild beach. I pause. I mark the swell 

Of toppling billows far out upon 

The drear of ocean. On, still on they come ! 

Now faltering rush upon the shelly 

Strand, and expire in gasps whereat I stand ! 

The sea-gull, pillowed on her cradle wave, 

Shrieks wild, discordant notes as night drops on 

The deep. The curlew, homeward bound, with bold 

Wing cleaves the darkling air, and circling 

Sweeps around her cliff-girt eyrie. The winds 

Are up, and at their nightly revels. Hark ! 

In yonder cave they clap their rebel wings, 

And shout " Eternity ! eternity !" 

These were my friends of yore : these have my soul 
Communed with : to these my lips have muttered 
Thoughts of strange conception — thoughts which have n 
Record. Then Youth, agape, at distance stood, 



the waif's retrospect. 69 

With lips apart, and pale, in attitude 
Of timid mein ; and Age, of knowledge full, 
Looked on with wisdom's eye, and slowly shook 
Its scanty locks of autumn hair, and spake : 
The house of reason totters ! Alas ! poor 
Boy ! poor boy ! I fear he sits with madness j 
Holding converse dread with her peopled clouds ! 
Perchance they erred not much, for I have felt, 
At times, odd promptings, and wished that this frail 
Pulp of flesh had withered ere it was flung 
To the winds of adversity to crisp 
And whip. Yet there has been on this fantastic 
Globe — this patient nurse of flesh — this spacious 
Catacomb of Man — beings who gave such 
Thoughts the shape and tone of words — words which hung 
A chaplet on the brow of Time to beard 
Destruction ! But I am not of these. Mine 
Had creation, but they lived not — they were 
Blasted ! I mourned not much. Fame holds aloft 
A bitter chalice ; and they who drink must 
Die ! Nor does the spirit, in eternity 
Aught better fare because of having quaffed 
The goblet brimming o'er with the applause 



70 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Of man. Nor does its bones interred crumble 
In more peace beneath the costly sculptured 
Stone high raised, and called a mark of honor, 
Than in a modest grave, 'neath simple turf. 
Mine be a crave obscure — its head-stone a tear ! 



THE SUICIDE. 71 



THE SUICIDE. 

There she calmly lies, but just recovered 

From the flood — her brown hair dank and clotted 

"With the foam of the wild breakers, which quenched 

Her life's brief lamp ! How icy cold her hand ! 

How stiff she lies ! How white her cheek ! Where now 

The dimpled rose that bloomed forever there ? 

Alas ! alas ! poor girl ! how dire her fate ! 

Stranger, I knew her well — how long and well ! — 
In childhood, in girlhood, and the first bloom 
Of buoyant womanhood. 'Tis but one fall 
Of leaves in the lap of Autumn, since that dark 
And ruined temple was lovely, rarely 
Beautiful — when reason filled its twilight 
Aisles, shadowy recesses, arches grand, 
And lofty dome, with the essence of life j 
When glad being, illumined by the torch 



72 TONES ON THE HARI*. 

Of conscious innocence and virgin faith, 
Presided at its altars, scattering 
Incense sacred with a bounteous hand ; 
When from those lips compressed, as if to hold 
Life's secret in death, gushed strains of sweetest 
Tone from the heart's deep melody, filling 
With an alto grand the great spiritual 
Tabernacle, now swelling with a strain 
Of melting pathos, again faltering 
With a cadence sad, and anon thrilling 
With a wild, grand symphony. Oh, she was 
Glorious ! How we loved her ! All loved her, 
Rich and poor ! She was our pride ! Every heart 
Within our hamlet had a place for her ! 

Ah, stranger ! you may look and listen now ! 
The grand diapason of existence 
Is hushed — the consecrated fires extinguished ! 
The high priests have fled the sanctuary ! 
On its deserted altars there is writ, 
"Alas! alas! IchaLod! Ichabod!" 

Stranger ! would you learn the story of her wrongs ? 
Listen ; and while I speak, look on that face, 
And mark those deep set lines of agon v 



THE SUICIDE. 73 

Round those rayless eyes, fixed with dark despair ! 

Those white lips fixed with unutterable 

Woe of the soul's dread suffering ! and ask 

Thy heart : Can this be Suicide ! Is it 

Not Murder, dealt by foul man, her brother ? 

"Iwas when the first glowing flush of dawning 
Womanhood shed a halo on her brow, 
There came unto our hamlet a stranger 
Who had been schooled — ay, well schooled — in cities. 
He was a man of comely mien, and step 
Of haughty tread. His manners, they were high 
And polished — his tongue, how smooth ! and his speech, 
Just tuned for maiden's ear, flowed fluently, 
And had a power. He saw the Jewel 
Of our hamlet — such was the name we gave 
Her who lies before you — and, seeing, 
Coveted, but not loved ! Oh, no — he had 
Too much of earth for that ! It were a grand, 
A glorious conquest, thought he, to win 
The wealth of that rich heart, pure as the rose 
Which nestled in her braided hair ! And long- 
He watched her smile for love, and long he sighed 
For that sigh which speaks affection, and oft 



74 TONES ON THE HARP. 

He held the beaded goblet to her suininer 
Lips, that she might drink deeply, and be drunk 
Of love. Yet many suns had rose and set, 
And many moons waned palely, ere he had 
Triumphed. But then came the ripe, rich harvest 
Of his success. How sublime was the love 
Intense, the all-absorbing love, of her," 
The young, the beautiful, wooed and won ! How 
Her being seemed to leap from its abode, 
That it might mingle with and dwell for aye 
With him ! But he grew weary of her love — 
The victory was won — his earthy self 
Was gratified. With heartless irony 
He smote the confiding soul, and blighted 
The heart's rich love-bloom, and with remorseless 
Hand snapped the fond, clinging tendrils, and left 
Them to trail and wither in the dust ! 

Stranger ! 
There are moments of such untold grief, such 
Unutterable woe, such agony — 
Such burning agony — that reason falls 
Consumed, and the spirit, a captive lorn 
And tortured, bursts its prison, and is free ! 



THE SUICIDE. 75 

And when the world, the great, wise world, cries out, 
" Suicide!'' it lies — 'tis Murder ! 

Stranger ! 
If beyond that slanting curtain of clouds 
There be, as creeds doth teach and I believe, 
A heaven, and fair-visaged Justice reigns, — 
That maiden's spirit is an angel there ! 



76 TONES ON THE HARP. 



WHEKE ARE MY FRIENDS? 

Where are my friends ? 

Come, all come ! 
Come with the swallows — 

Summer is come ; 
On my hearth-stone sits 
Plentiful cheer ! 

And mine eyes grow bright, 

All happy and bright, 
With a joyful tear ! 

There's flowing wine ; 

Many friends are mine — 

True friends are mine ; 
Summer is here — summer is here ! 

Where are my friends ? 
( i one — all gone ! 



WHERE ARE MY FRIENDS? 77 

Gone with the swallows — 

Summer is gone J 
On my hearth-stone sits 
Poverty drear ! 

And my eyes grow dim, 

All troubled and dim, 
With a joyless tear ! 

No flowing wine, 

No friends are mine — 

False friends are mine ! 
Winter is here — winter is here ! 



78 TONES ON THE HARP. 



ODE TO A SLEEPING CHILD 

Child of mortals, how calm thy rest ! 
No hidden grief nor sighs suppressed 
Disturb thy young and guileless breast — 
Happy child ! 

Thy dream is fraught with visions fair, 
Thy brow is smooth — no shade of care 
Nor mark of passion linger there — 
Sinless child ! 

But thou art young, thy summers few, 
Thine eye unwet by sorrow's dew; 
Thy heart yet deems that all is true — 
Trusting child ! 

Nor may thy heart e'er understand, 
Nor feel the cold and loveless hand 



OLE TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 79 

That wields keen sorrow's ruthless wand — 
Tender child ! 

May thy life's star revolve in peace ; 
And may thy thoughts still roam the space 
Where Heaven showers bounteous grace — 
Gentle child ! 

Still may the angels of repose 
Thy pale, delicate eyelids close, 
And kiss thy tender cheek's faint rose — 
Feeble child ! 

But should thy fate and Heaven's will 
Meet thee a share of mortal ill, 
To bear along life's rugged hill, 
Patient child ! — 

Then, flower of earth, bear in mind 
There's a calm in heaven, destined, 
Through Christ, the hope of mortal kind, 
For thee, child ! 



80 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And all who live to learn to die, 
And look with meek and loving eye 
To the Father of Souls on high — 
Guard the child ! 



BILLY JOLLY TO HIS WIFE POLLY. 81 



BILLY JOLLY TO HIS WIFE POLLY. 

My own dear little wife, 
Let us banish, all strife ; 
So that this fleeting life 
Be with happiness rife. 

Let us laugh at old Time — 
That, you know, is no crime — 
Though we have not a dime 
To jingle a cash chime. 

Let us always be gay, 
Dance, sing, shout, romp, and play, 
Through our life's jolly day — 
• Thus banish frowns away. 

Then when Death claims his score, 
We'll wide open the door, 



82 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And invite the lean boor 
To a seat on the floor. 

Not a tear shall we cry, 
But just kiss a good-bye ; 
And then part with a sigh, 
Till our union on high. 

We'll thereby let him see, 
That o'er life's troubled sea, 
Mortals' voyage can be 
One of sunshine and glee, 

If they will only take 
All things easy, nor stake 
One gay laugh for the sake 
Of lucre to make. 



EPITAPH ON A CAT. 83 



EPITAPH ON A CAT. 

WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF AN "ANCIENT MAIDEN LADY." 

On, stranger dear, 

Let fall a tear ! 

One Thomas Cat, 
Who was in life a rouser ! 

Could filch a snack 

Behind your back, 

Dispatch a rat 

With every spat, 
Likewise a tip-top mouser — 

Lies here, caved in ! defunct ! 
His nom de plume was Damon, 
His morals purely Mormon ; 

Would thrash each brat 

Of prowling cat, 



84 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And knock 'em harem-scarem, 
That dared to tread 
His native shed — 
The shed wherein he bunked, 
And kept o' nights a harem ! 



SONNET. 85 



SONNET. 

WRITTEN ON BEING ASKED "WHAT IS LIFE?" 

When, in thy dream in autumn years to come, 
A vision forlorn shall arise, 

With faded brow, and lips all pale and dumb, 
And dim, and sad, and tearful eyes, 

It is the Shade of youth departed, 

Wandering back all broken-hearted 
From the tomb of buried joys, 
Through the vale of hapless sighs, 

To the Eden, where spring imparted 

Darling hues to blossoming life — 

Love's golden promise, void of strife — 
Cadence soft to songs of gladness, 
Tuned with hope, and void of sadness — 

Ah, mortal pilgrim ! that is Life ! 



86 TONES ON THE HARP. 



ODE TO MY HEART 

Oh, heart of mine, be calm ! 
Why dost thou yield to sorrow, 
When life can always borrow 
Of hope a brighter morrow, 

A soothing taste of balm ? 
Though it ever prove to be 

All delusive as mist 

Upon a mountain's crest, 

Or bubbles on a sea ! 
Oh, cease to mourn and repine — 
Look to heaven, heart of mine, 

For the loved and lost ! 

Oh, heart of mine, be still ! 
Though thy sun be all shaded, 
And thy summer bloom faded, 
Ere its spring hath down laid it 



ODE TO MY HEART. 87 

'Neath the leaves of autumn chill, 
In a melancholy shroud, 

On the bosom of old earth — 

Parent kind of each birth, 

Whether humble or proud ; — 
Oh, heart of mine, be not sad ! 
Look to heaven, and be glad : 

Seek God with thy breath ! 



TONES ON THE HARP. 



LYRIC OF THE WINDS 

We arc rovers free, 
On land or on sea ! 
We sob o'er a grave, 
Or shout on the wave : — 
What mortal can stay 
Our limitless sway 
By night or by day ? 

The gray mists we furl, 
The dark clouds we hurl 
On the mountain's curl, 
And sprinkle the rain 
On the thirsty grain — 
We spatter the rain 
Over hill and plain ; 



LYEIO OF THE WINDS. 89 

<< 

Or, torrid and dry, 
Go whistling by, 
High twirling the dust 
In a spiral bust 
Aloft to the sky, 
Or tossing the snow 
On the globe below. 

We nestle at rest 
In a flower's breast, 
Or we lash the main 
With a foamy chain. 
With a gentle gale 
We expand the sail, 
Or shattering blast ! 

We heed no behest 
Nor gentle request 
From sinner or blest, 
The rich or the poor. 
We are welcome guests, 
Or troublesome pests, 
At every one's door. 



90 TONES ON THE HARP. 

We espouse no clime ; 
We are twins of Time. 
On creation's morn, 
With him we were born 
On creation's eve, 
With him we will leave 
This planet forlorn. 



LINES. 91 



LINES. 

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 

Now sad Night walks in grief her dusky isle, 
While meteors troubled hasten to and fro 

Athwart the high, solemn heavens, and pale 
Fixed stars look trembling on the scene of wo ! 

The rebellious winds forget their stern will, 

And pause awhile, nor clap their wings, nor start, 

But linger, moaning plaintive o'er the ill 
That fills with sorrow a nation's heart ! 

The sobbing ocean chants a solemn dirge, 
And mournful echoes catch the woful strain ; 

And mermaids from their coral couch emerge, 
With tearful eyes, to join the weeping train ! 



92 TONES ON THE HARP. 

The eagle bold deserts her rock-girt nest, 

And, screaming, cleaves the muffled elements 

With joyless wing and sorrow-heaving breast, 
As she marks the pall on freedom's battlements ! 

Freedom weeps ! Low droops her radiant head ! 

And pointing toward the scroll of duty, 
She speaks : " Here is no blot to shame the dead, 

Nor faidt to punish in eternity I" 



IMPROMPTU. 93 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON BEING ASKED "WHAT IS LOVE?" 

Without Love, Man were but a savage ruthless ! 
Woman, a croaking hag, shriveled and toothless ! 
Prolific Earth, a chaos wild and fruitless ! 
Existence, loved, a boon unsought and bootless ! 



94 TONES ON THE HARP. 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 

What though it has not been nay life-long care 
To have my name enlist the mighty ear 
Of ruling Kings, high on the throne of state, — 
Nor satellites, who deem themselves as great, 
Have asked, Ah, pray, what speaks his pedigree? 
His ancestors, were they of high degree ? 
Is he by lineage long of noble blood, 
Or brat descended of the vulgar herd ? 



Ere autumn winds shout on the hills, 
And moan through forests drear, and rills 
Have hushed their summer songs, and birds 
Have flown to warmer climes, nor words 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 95 



Of love and hope, 'neath vernal shade, 
On dewy glebe, in silent glade, 
Are whispered by fond lover 
To maiden fair, at dusky hour; 



ir. 



At noon's decline, when lightly trips 
The gentle Eve, with dewy lips, 
Adown the hill-side, through the vale, 
The daisied brake, the mossy dale, 
Kissing the wild-flowers, cooling 
The sick brow, the sad heart soothing, 
Breathing rest to the toiling hand, 
Pouting the lips with language bland :- 

in. 

On granite rock, in quiet glen, 
Far distant from the clank and din 
Of jostling life, and the jar 
Of worldly shocks, and the loud war 



96 TONES ON THE HARP 

Of passions fell, fierce contending 
For earthly dross, and the* rending 
Hiss, hiss, of husky panting strife 
On the surging billow of life ; — 



TV. 



Sat Leman old, with brow serene, 
And streaming locks of silver sheen. 
Fair was his mein, though poor his lot ; 
And lowly stood the rustic cot, 
Where he had passed his humble days 
In honest pride, and thankful praise 
To the God of earth and heaven, 
For the blessings many given. 



He gazed upon the ancient trees 

Where sweet birds sang their evening glees ; 

He gazed upon the purling brook, 

The mossy brink, the ivy nook; 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 97 

He gazed along the valley green, 
And on the hill-top's verdant scene ; 
Then roaming high o'er heaven vast, 
His vision linger'd on the west, 

VI. 

Where the low sun, with glowing light, 
Lit up a crescent cloud, and bright 
Floods pour'd of crimson hue, and roll'd 
Along the sky great waves of gold. 
He sigh'd ; then from his placid lips 
There cadence came, softly as dips 
The muffled oar in glassy lake, 
With measured pause, and slow he spake : — 

VII. 

" Thus sets the sun of life, when man 

Lays down this tuft of earth, this wan 

And weary pulp of flesh, in peace, 

And can bequeath unto his race 
7 



98 TONES ON THE HARP. 

The record of his errand here 
With man, his brother frail, nor fear 
The darkness of the tomb, nor dread 
The awful senteuce of the dead. 

VIII. 

" T is a glorious eve ; how calm 
Earth sits ; the winds slumber, and balm 
Of summer's fragrance-breathing sighs, 
Floats on ambient wing ; nor lies 
There a jet on heaven's expanse ; — 
All is tranquillity — a trance 
Serene of celestial feature 
Wraps the pausing ear of nature ! 



IX. 



" How oft I've seen, at break of day, 
The dawning sun o'er yonder brae, 
Clad with brown and blossoming heath, 
Look on the silent vale beneath ; 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 99 



And oft at eve I've sat me here, 

And gloried in his high career, 

As slow he sank to noble rest 

O'er yonder hill which marks the west. 



" Then when night came in twilight hood, 
And shadow cast o'er land and flood, 
Oft have I linger'd till the moon 
Told on the gnomon night's pale noon, 
With watchful eyes and sleepless mind, 
Pondering on the undefined 
Secrets of the soul's citadel, 
When the flesh moulders in its cell. 



XI. 



" But here life ends — my journey's o'er- 
My sands are told — ah, nevermore 
Shall I behold the rising sun, 
Nor gaze at eve, when toil is done, 



100 TONES ON THE HARP. 

On the bright and glorious sky, 
Nor on earth's bloom of many die; 
Nor song of birds, to me so dear, 
May greet my soul through mortal ear ! 

XII. 

" My aged bark is drifting fast 
On the doubtful shore of the vast 
Stern island of eternity, 
There to learn the unknown mystery 
Of death, and the home of spirits — 
That dwelling each soul inherits 
On that strand where Lethe's ocean 
Rolls its waves with noiseless motion. 

XIII. 

" This moss-girt rock, my faithful seat, 
The friendly birds that carol sweet 
Upon these long familiar boughs, 
The guileless lambs that prank and browse 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. . 101 



Along those verdure tufted braes, 
Yon brook which chants eternal praise, 
Will miss my presence when gray morn 
Proclaims another day is born." 

XIV. 

Here Leman paused awhile, and low 
Upon his hand reclined his brow, 
While within his quivering breast 
A fount of feeling, long suppress'd, 
Welled up, and from his moisten'd eye 
One drop rolled down upon a sigh 
To earth, and trembled in the moss, 
When thus again resumed his voice : — ■ 

xv. 

" Take it, Nature ! That tear is thine ! 
While the tendrils of life doth twine 
Around my spirit, my heart's pulse 
Shall throb to thee with fond impulse;- 



102 . TONES ON THE HARP. 

When o'er my fainting bosom roll'd 
Wild waves of passion, thou hast told 
My heart be quiet, and hast led 
My wandering thoughts unto God ; 

XVI. 

" And hast said, ' Lo, I am the creed 
Of saints ! Look on my scroll, and read 
This truth — a pilgrim's sentiment 
Who begged for bread, but was content :' 
The poor, lean-visaged mendicant, 
Jaded and staggering of want, 
Whipp'd by his rags and poverty, 
To kiss the spare hand of charity, 

XVII. 

" Through summer's calm and winter's storm, 
Lays down at night his weary form 
On his straw bed, and takes repose 
In softer sleep — his dreams disclose 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. . 103 

More joy, and brighter visions far, 
If beams within his heart that star 
Which lights the soul's imprisonment — 
That ray of heaven, sweet content — 

XVIII. 

" Than that man whose gold-belted garb 
Flings back the flash of heaven's orb ; 
Whose couch is down ; whose nice palate 
Smacks the best in plenty's wallet ; 
Whose pallid brow and lips compress'd, 
And fretful mein and troubled rest, 
Proclaim the viper Discontent 
Infests the vital tenement." 

XIX. 

" I do not mourn for life — we part 
In peace, good friends. No tear shall start 
When vision, nor sound, nor distance 
Hath a pulse in my existence, 



104 TONES ON THE HARP. 

And the cold wing of sombre Death 
Fans my damp brow, and wafts the breath 
From these pale lips of weary clay, 
And drops the shroud o'er life's long day. 

xx. 

" I have lived my allotted span, 
And walked at ease when others ran 
With headlong speed, to grasp at what 
They could not reach, and never got. 
Not that I lacked a bold desire 
To gain some position higher 
Than that the will of wayward fate 
Assigned me as my birthright state ; 

XXI. 

" But I, being what some deride — 
A man of honor and of pride, 
Who gloried in an honest name 
More than the monument of fame, — 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 105 

I've dwelt in calm obscurity, 

'Mid scenes and forms of purity — 

A hermit odd, as people say, 

Far from the haunts where bask the gay. 

xxn. 

" For in youth I learned but too well, 
How much the humble must excel 
In anything which tends to claim 
Distinction's pass to wealth and fame } 
And, if excelling, rarely reach 
The bauble from its lofty pitch, 
Unless in league with those who cheat 
Their upward flight to high estate. 

XXIII. 

" There be such men, full many, too ; 
And I have known of them a few 
In my spare dealings with the mass, 
Who hug to earth and earthly dross, 



106 TONES ON THE HARP. 

. Nor balk at deeds, so dark and fell, 
That one alone would warrant hell, 
To gain the prize — the luring spoil — 
The guerdon of their damned toil ; 

XXIV. 

" And cringe and fawn upon the host 
Of glutted worms, who vainly boast 
Exalted rank and noble blood, 
Pure since the world's ingulfing flood, 
Which, if God's naked truth was plain, 
Had its origin in the vein 
Of dastard base, or implicit, 
Servile whelp of love illicit. 

XXV. 

" Worse : perchance a murderer's hand 
Raised the loftly structure, and plann'd 
The heaven insulting tower 
Of their vanity and power. 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. 107 



Such are the lordly sons of might, 
Who claim the undisputed right 
To rule this flesh-lapped empire 
With ripping lash and fetters dire ; 

XXVI. 

" And fling the bitter taunt of slave 
To her desponding sons, and rave — 
Such wast thou in thy mother's womb- 
Such expire — shall be in the tomb — 
We are thy masters, our estate 
To rule ; thine to serve and entreat 
For daily crumbs — ay, existence! 
Raise not thou, with loud resistance, 

XXVII. 

" The rebel wail, nor in anguish 
Call for justice, when you languish 
Beneath the burden of our yoke, 
And thy rebellious heart is broke ! 



108 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Thy country hath no will — no voice — 
No flag — no triumph song — no choice 
Of laws — nor rights ; — her marshal strains 
Are but the clank of shackle chains. 

XXV11I. 

" And scan, with eye of scorn, that man 
Who cannot boast a noble clan — 
Albeit to his high soul 'tis due 
That honor which belongs to few — 
The title Man — and they, how mighty 
In opulence or poverty! — 
Forms that, like the dazzling sun, 
The skulking eye of knaves must shun." 

XXIX. 

Again pale Leman paused : his eye 
With waning vision wandered high, 
Where the young moon, with friendly ray, 
Upon a slender drift of gray 



LBMAN, THE SAOE. 109 

And dappled clouds, that lay at rest 
Par in the distant slanting east, 
Sat lightly midst the ether blue, 
Lighting the niche of dusky hue, 

XXX. 

Where night's brown queen, with raylesa eye, 
In dankish robes of tawny dye, 
Sat brooding alone in muffled woe, 
Her loose locks tossing to and fro — 
When thus again, in accents weak, 
His pallid lips essayed to speak : 
Faint was his utterance, and slow 
His language fell, with cadence low: — 

XXXI. 

" Oh, Father of Life ! I thank Thee 
For the blessings many thy free 
And bounteous will hath bestow'd 
On my pilgrimage o'er the road 



t 



110 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Of devious life, and the balm 
Of honest slumber, and the calm 
Of sweet contentment's soothing peace 
Thou hast bid my soul embrace. 

XXXII. 

" When I am gone, none can defame 
My humble but unsullied name. 
That thought alone imparts more rest 
And quiet hope to this, my last 
Declining hour, than all the show 
Of honor mortals can bestow. 
Farewell, earth ! my mission is done ! 
Father, receive thy weary son !" 

xxxin. 

He ceased : a breeze then passing by, 
Paused awhile, then hovering nigh 
Where Leman lay, hush'd and listen'd; 
Then to a dew-drop that glisten'd 



LEMAN, THE SAGE. Ill 

Upon a drooping leaf hard by, 
Whispered, " I'll bear bis soul on high ; 
Thee and thy sisters mourn below — 
Mine will strike the harp of woe." 

XXXIV- 

On the Isle of Woe, where Emmet sleeps, 
And " Tara's harp" dread silence keeps, 
There is a grave beside a brook, 
'Neath the shade of an aged oak, 
Whose friendly branches spreading wide, 
Lean fondly o'er the tiny tide, 
And guard, with giant arms outspread, 
The sacred temple of the dead — 

xxxv. 

There Leman lies, in humble state, 
The turf his monument ! — a slate 
Denotes where rests his lowly head, 
With this inscription to the dead : 



112 TONES ON THE HARP. 

" There lies within this narrow herth, 
In humble yarb, the mortal clod 
Of one who craved no boon of earth, 
And owned no master but his God!" 



FLOWERS, 113 



FLOWERS. 

There is a sermon and a creed in flowers, 

And they have tongues which speak unto conscience, 

And their voice hath music, and is sacred 

To the listening soul. The hills stupendous, 

Mountain crested ; the seas immense ; the rocks 

Which bound their deep, broad space, and brave the shod 

Of swells tempestuous — their dusky grandeur 

Veiled, anon, with the white spray of their wrath ; 

The circling planets, still rolling onward 

In numberless cycles, high poised amid 

Dread infinity of space, and ancient 

As their sun; the stars phosphoric, that light 

The nebulous expanse of firmament ; 

The etesian winds that blow; and the rains 

That fall within the concave of the vast 

Universe ; the birth and death of seasons ; 
8 



114 TONES ON THE HARP. 

The broad, bright day of wakefulness; the night 
Of darkness and of just repose; — bear not 
The signet of God's will more palpably 
Than does the frailest little floweret 
Whose petals quiver when zephyrs breathe. 



TO ANNA. 115 



TO ANNA. 

Maiden ! thou of the dark brown hair, 
Full oft the morn and evening air 
Wafts on high a lover's prayer, 

Pure and free, 

Meant for thee — 

Solely thee ! 

But his soul in vain concealing 
What his eye is still revealing, 
Meets of sympathetic feeling 

None from thee — 

Ever free, 

Loveless thee ! 

Ah ! coldly beams thy dark blue eye, 
Whene'er he speaks or lingers nigh, 



I 

116 TONES ON THE HARP. 



"Who hapless exists, and would die 
Still to be 
Loved by tliee — 
Only thee! 



SOX NET. 117 



SONNET. 

How graud in autumn, when the evening sun 

Bends o'er the blushing sea, whose deep, broad space, 
With measured throb, rolls its blue waves to the base 

Of some south crested cliff, there stretched alone 

Upon the burnished heath to pause for hours, 
And feel, low breathing on thy listless face, 

The dew-lipped air, fresh from inland bowers 
Of clover wild, and wilder flowers, and mace ; 

To hear the fitful hum and languid sigh 

Of some stray wind among the drowsy boughs, 

And the grass-braided brooklet lisping nigh, 
That still with dreamy poem ever goes 

Gliding along in sweet monotony, 

Obedient to its Maker's high decree ! 



118 TONES ON THE HARP. 



LOVE'S OWN CLIME. 

There the sun shines daily from on high, 

O'er valleys fair and ever green ; 
There lakelets reflect the azure sky, 

Brave emerald branches between ; 
There nature's fountains gushing clear, 

Leap the mountain's furrowed brow; 
There bounds the swift, the noble deer, 

And gay birds chant on every bough ; 
There lov'd philomels nightly sing 

Sweet songs to their own lovely isle; 
There the soft zephyr's lambent wing 

Wafts soothing fragrance all the while; 
There Luna sheds her kindest light, 

And dew-drops kiss many a rose; 
There the stars wink in fond delight, 

At Peace and Plenty's kind repose. 



THE DYING ORPHAN'S LAMENT. 119 



THE DYING ORPHAN'S LAMENT. 

A poor orphau girl, forlorn and pale, 

Knelt by a grave on a wintry night ; 
Fast fell her tears, and sad her wail, 

While the snow-drops wove a garland white 
O'er her brow upturned and braidless hair, 

Full dark as the tomb, and floating wild, 
As with white lip, on the midnight air, 

She breathed this lament, poor orphan child, 
To her mother in heaven ! 

" Ah ! sad is the night on this wild heath, 

And woefully croaks the dark wing'd raven, 
Dismally perched yon tower beneath, 

By lightnings fierce long rent and riven ; 
But sadder still is my heart within — 
Faint and alone, on this dreary wild, 



120 TONES ON THE HARP. 

A friendless waif in this world of sin, 

Since thou hast left thy poor orphan child, 
Dearest mother in heaven ! 

No gentle voice in my joyless ear 

Soothingly whispers a sweet relief 
To my weary soul's unceasing tear, 

That flows from a fount of endless grief. 
They say that my heart is void of love, 

And my pale, sad lips, have never smiled ! 
Ah ! none doth know but thy soul above, 

The deathless love of thy orphan child, 
Fondest mother in heaven ! 

My lips grow still, and mine eyes grow dim, 

And faint is the throb of my sick heart ; 
I know 'tis Death, but I fear not him — 

His icy touch can no pang impart! 
Farewell, earth ! adieu, mortality ! 

Lo! I am coming, sweet spirit mild, 
To thy changeless home of purity ! 

Oh ! press to thy heart thy orphan child, 
My own mother in heaven ! 



THEY COST "ROCKS." 121 



THEY COST "ROCKS." 

« 

Wife, you wear a bonnet blue, 
A pretty bead have in it, too ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only — a-hem — 
It costs some rocks to deck a whim — 
Let down that slat, 
The sun is scorching ! 

Wife, you wear a dress quite new, 
With frills around, athwart, askew ! 

" Well, what of that ?" 
Oh, nothing, only fine robes 
Cost solid rocks as well as globes — 
I'm growing fat, 
I've burst my girdle ! 



122 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Wife, you wear gloves tipped with flue ; 

Your hand is very small, 't is true ! 
"Well, what of that?" 

Oh, nothing, only kidskin 

Costs rocks. They've ta'en t' using ratskin- 
How very flat 
This young poodle lies ! 

Wife, your eyes are brilliant; who 
Has brighter ? Echo answers who ? 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only, my dear, 
It costs rocks to keep the vision cle;ir — 
This beer is flat, 
Ilops are very scarce ! 

Wife, your lips are rosy hue. 

You smile more sweet than cousin Sue ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothingf only I ween 
It costs rocks to keep the mouth serene — 

There -roes a rat ; 

Moll, look to the cheese ! 



THEY COST " ROCKS." 123 

Wife, you never act the shrew, 
Nor scold a lick, as others do ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only quiet 
Costs some rocks, as well as diet — 

Mike, dust that mat ; 

You know dust makes dirt ! 

Wife, you're fair as morning dew, 
Or any hud that ever grew ' 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only beauty 
Costs, in rocks, a heavy duty — 

Bill's had a spat ; 

Lo ! his jacket's slit ! 

Wife, you never seem to rue, 
But stick to notion tight as glue ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only self-will 
Costs rocks — sometimes 'twill outright kill — 

Moll, cleanse the vat! 

We'll have a shower! 



124 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Wife, you never care to sew, 
But then you love romances so ! 

" Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only novels 
Cost rocks — mother made good waffles — 

My pipe, you Mat! 

I've got the toothache ! 

Wife, you always wish to strew 

Our board with luscious roast and stew ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only dainties 
Cost rocks in fish, flesh, or pastries — 
That's leghorn plat 
In that old bonnet ! 

Wife, you always sniff and pooh 

When food is high, the wherewith few ! 

"Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only eating 
Sendeth rocks pell-mell a skating — 
There's fish called sprat, 
Rather small, but sweet ! 



THEY COST " ROCKS." 125 

Wife, you never do say " boo" 

To household squander ; no, not you ! 

" Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing, only wasting 
Costs some rocks, as well as feasting — 

That little gnat 

Has stung my smeller ! 

Wife, you never take a cue, 

To snub our friends — that sponging crew ! 

" Well, what of that ?" 
Oh, nothing, only suckers 
Reduce rocks to flimsy wafers — 

Boys, hold your chat ; 

Silence becomes youth ! 

Wife, I guess you always knew 
Adam's rooster was the first that crew ! 

" Well, what of that ?" 
Oh, nothing, only knowledge 
Costs rocks — you'd have the boys at college — 

There's tit for tat, 

Says Mike Finnegan ! 



126 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Now, wife, between me and you, 
I adore you — I'll vow I do! 

• "Well, what of that?" 
Oh, nothing; only just that 
You cost huge rocks ; that's very pat- 
Hum, where's my hat ? 
I ken wrath feminine ! 



TO A FRIEND. 127 



TO A FRIEND. 

Give rue thy hand ! for well I know, — 
Through sun or shade, through weal or wo, 
Through breathless calm or heavy blow, 
On land or surging billows' flow, — 
Thou art a noble friend, 
All changeless to the end ! 



128 TONES ON THE HARP. 



A CHILD'S EPITAPH 

One morn a flower bloomed, 
At evening it faded. 
Here lie the withered leaves ; 
The essence rose to God ! 



AT MIDNIGHT. 129 



AT MIDNIGHT. 

7 T is midnight damp ! utter silence reigns ! 

And darkness dense and black as ebon 
Clasps the earth, as if in terror, and strains 

It to her dumb lips and pulseless heart ! 

I hearken ! no tone of peace nor strife 

Wanders through the empire of blackness ! 

'Tis as if the vital spark of life 

Hath smothered in the all dreadful gloom ! 

Oh, I'm sick of this quiet — this dearth 

Of light and sound ! I wish some living thing 

Would stir, e'en a cricket on the hearth, 
Or a spider dust his web on the wall ! 



11(> TONES ON THE HARP. 



THAT WILD BEACH WHERE MY OWN COT STANDS. 

Yes, sing me songs of love and truth ; 

My heart is strangely sad to-day ! 
I'm thinking of the friends of youth, 

Now sleeping 'neath the silent clay, 

In mine own land, my childhood's home, 

Far o'er the blue Atlantic wave, 
By the wild beach where billows foam, 

And dark rocks stand and wild winds rave ! 

Ah, sad the will and sad the thought, 
That bears me back to youthful days ! 

Ah, sad the scene and lone the cot, 
Where I have sung my boyish lays ! 

Guided by my wandering star, 

I've seen fair spots in stranger lands ; 

Yet dear to me — ah ! dearer far, 

That wild beach where my own cot stands ! 



LO.\<i A CO. 131 



LONG AGO. 

Heigho ! dear friend, how very fast 
Time flies ! How many years have cast 
Their shadow upon earth's dial, 
Since I first met life's rude trial, 

Long ago ! 

And yet how fresh doth memory keep 
Each tint on that little landscape, 
By streamlet, mound, nook, and wildwood, 
Painted on the heart in childhood, 

Long ago ! 

I see a birch hard by a brook, 
Beside a green and shady nook, 
Where I have sat, 'mid waving corn, 
Many an eve and early morn, 

Long ago ! 



132 TONES ON THE HARP. 

I see a mound within a dell, 
Beside a clear and trickling 'well, 
Where I have knelt low on the sod, 
And quaffed full oft and thanked my God, 

Long ago ! 

Nigh to a cot of humble dome — 
Dear friend, it was my early home — 
There I have wept, and, weeping, smiled, 
For I was then a happy child, 

Long ago ! 
• 
Till on that cot there fell a gloom, 
And strangers came to mother's room, 
And friends stood there, and tears were shed 
Around my pale, pale, mother's bed, 

Long ago ! 

There was a grave with flowers strewed, 
Beside an autumn-sighing wood ; 
There I have knelt morn, noon, and eve, 
And kissed, dear friend, my mother's grave, 

Long ago ! 



LONG AGO. 133 

All, nic ! how oft my bosom's thought 
Is full of these, and asks my heart 
If they are still, aud do they seem, 
As once they did in childhood's dream, 

Long ago ! 

As I still onward roam among 
My fellow-kind, amid a throng 
Of earthly hopes and earthly fears, 
A pilgrim bowed with hapless years, 

Long ago ! 

Ah, there ! how weak ! dear friend, my heart, 
Long taught to act a calmer part, 
Wells up, and tears are mine, and sighs — 
I may not speak of other days, 

Long a«o ! 



134 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THOUGHTS 

WHILE OBSERVING A LADY IN CHURCH. 

Maiden, thou art solemn ! thy pensive mien 
Inspires a calm, deep feeling of sadness, 

Such as one feels when night's serene-eyed queen 
Sheds on the hushed world a midnight paleness. 

Bland-visaged Melancholy gives in faith 
A something sacred to the mortal brow, 

Round which she softly 'twines her pale, sad wreath — 
Thine, indeed, appears most heavenly now, 

As thy pure thoughts, like pellucid streamlets, 
Unsullied flow their meek and sinless way, 

Reflecting Paradise in their .wavelets, 

And beams thine eye with faith when thou dost pray ! 



To MANNIE. 135 



TO MANNIE. 

Mannie! when meui'ry wakes, in years unborn, 

The slumbering recollections of the past, 
And you review the friends of youth's fair morn, 

Say, wilt thou waste a thought on me, and cast 
A wishful gaze into the realm of fate, 
To learn if I do yet in mortal state 
Exist, a pallid slave to love or hate, 
Or, pillowed calmly on life's sobless tide, 

With my soul's eyes fixed on cloudless heaven, 
The past forgotten, and this heart of pride 

Subdued — all forgiving and forgiven ? 



136 TONES ON THE HARP. 



MY HEART SEEMS LIKE A RUINED ALTAR. 

I'm weary ! My heart seems like a ruined altar 
In some deserted temple's darkling hall, 
Strewn with decay, draped with funeral pall ; 

My eyes grow dim with tears, and my accents falter, 
When I look hack, and the dim past recall ! 

Where is the truth ? where the faith of childhood ? 
Where are the joys? ah, where the friends of yore? 

There are shadows lengthening in the wildwood, 

Upon the grave-mound of careless boyhood 

Where they sleep. I can trust — can love no more ! 

Vain are life's dreams — sad their recollection ! 

Vain are its hopes — fleeting its affection ! 

Joy to-day, to-morrow deep dejection ! 
Its sweetest cup hath dregs of bitter gall, 
And yet, tho' young, I've known and felt them all ! 



IN MARCH. 187 



IN MARCH. 

At morn I saw the cold, white snow 
O'erspread the hill-side, lawn, and lea, 
Sombre clouds hearse the sky, the sea 

In foam dash on the cliffs below, 

And harsh winds shake the leafless tree. 

At noon I saw the ocean wave, 

With placid motion, reach the strand, 
And kiss the tiny shells with bland 

And languid pouting lip, and lave 
The crescent drift of yellow sand. 

At eve I saw the leafless tree, 

In dreamy pause, stand motionless ; 

The sky serene, deep blue, and cloudless ; 

The snow on hill-side, lawn, and lea, 
Touched to tears, in earth sink viewless. 



138 TONES ON THE HARP; 



THE PLIGHTED MAIDEN 

In time long coffined with, the past, 
Far o'er the swell of ocean vast, 
On an isle, a sorrowing isle, — 
A wreck — a funeral pile — 

A noble girl, at dewy hour, 
Pensive sat, in lonely bower, 
Hard by a stream of crystal sheen, 
Which flowed two vernal banks between. 

Her seat was flowers thick entwined, 
And at her feet a fawn reclined ; 
A relic old stood by her side, 
A noble harp of ancient pride. 

Her brow was fair, but not alone j 
Tt seemed of thought the very throne ; 



THE PLIGHTED MAIDEN. 139 

Her eyes were dark as ebon night, 
And spake a world of loving light. 

Her cheek was rich with blushing hue, 
Her lip, the rose, when wet with dew ; 
And round her neck, as snow-drift white, 
Played wayward curls, brown and bright. 

Her brow she leaned upon one hand, 
The other press'd a flower bland ; 
Her eyelids drooped, at length, too weak — 
Their long fringe rested on her cheek ; 

She slept — her breathing deep and fast ; 
She dreamed — 'twas of the pleasing past; 
Her bosom heaved — she breathed a name, 
Soft as an angel's holy theme. 

'Twas his, her lover, then afar, 
A noble in his country's war; 
And then she spake, as if aware 
That he caress'd and kissed her there. 



140 TONES ON THE HARP. 

A wayward zephyr's sudden start 
Shook the slumbering leaves apart, 
And woke the maiden in her dream 
Of him most dear 'neath heaven's beam ; 

When thus she spake : " Ye winds and leaves, 

Ah ! why disturb a maid who grieves ? 

Ah ! why dispel my dream of bliss ? 

Ah ! why prove false that greeting kiss ?" 

* 
Anon she heard a step approach, 
And rising from her flow'ry couch, 
Tossed back the glossy, flowing hair, 
From o'er her brow of beauty rare. 

It was her sire, infirm and hoar, 
And in his feeble hand he bore 
A letter white, with inky seal, 
Horrent forerunner of no weal. 

The flush forsook the maiden's cheek ; 
Transfixed she bow'd, nor could she speak ; 



THE PLIGHTED MAIDEN. 141 

Big tears adown her cheeks did glide — 
At length she broke the spell, and cried : 

" Speak ! oh, father fond ! he — he's dead !" 
The father bowed his ancient head, 
And heaved a long, convulsive sigh, 
While tears, hot tears, bedirnmed his eye. 

Then suddenly, the smouldering fire 
Of his youth, and the noble ire 
Of his proud heart and mighty soul 
Flashed forth, spurning time's control. 

He stood, with lofty brow upraised, 
As to the distant north he gazed, 
Then dashing from his furrow' d cheek 
A struggling tear, thus did he speak : 

" On yonder woful plain afar 
Our banner trails in blood ; our star 
Has set in gloom from shore to shore ; 
Our harp of freedom sings no more ! 



142 TONES ON THE HARP. 

"The foe has conquered, our country's lost, 
And freedom shrieks along our coast, 
But shrieks in vain ; her bleeding sons 
Fall fast; oh, God ! yet die in bonds ! 

" Thy lover sleeps ; his flashing shield 
Was foremost on the battle-field ; 
His last bold shout was for the free ; 
His dying words were all of thee." 

The maiden heard, and cadence came 
From her pale lips, of his dear name, 
Like the sad moan of streams, and sighs 
Of mournful winds, when autumn dies. 

She paused, her eyes to heaven cast, 
Then sank to earth, — a gentle blast 
Just then wandering slowly by, 
Bore to heaven her long, last sigh. 

Still as a statue white she lay, 
Nor sign of animated clay ; 



THE PLIGHTED MAIDEN. 14; 

Loosely clasped in her slender hands 
Her dark brown tresses waving bands. 

* 

Her sire, kneeling, deplored his child 
In accents fond, yet quick and wild, 
And chafed her brow, and kissed her cheek, 
And prayed her snowy lips to speak. 

'T was vain ; his fond voice she heard not, 
His paternal kiss she felt not, 
For as he kissed, her young heart's blood 
Flowed through her lips a crimson flood. 

The gentle fawn pillowed her head, 
The maiden's loving spirit fled, 
And the flower she pressed so bland, 
Lay cold and withered in her hand. 

The sorrowing winds softly sighed 
Around that harp of ancient pride, 
And swept its cords with sorrow laden, 
O'er that true and plighted maiden. 



141 TONES ON THE HARP. 



TO ELLA. 

I saw a violet 

Pillowed on a stream ; 
I saw a wavelet 

Clasped by a sunbeam ; 
I thought of thee, and said, 

Flower pillowed on the stream, 

"Wavelet clasped by a sunbeam, 
Ye are emblems of the maid. 



MUSIC. 14.") 



MUSIC. 

What mind can form, or tongue express, 
The spell of music on the heart ? 

What soul can boast of that excess 
Which might delineate a part? 

It lifts the mind from sordid earth, 

And fills the heart with thoughts sublime ; 

It gives to love its noblest birth, 
In every rank and every clime. 

It calms the last, the final hour, 
And whispers angels plead above ; 

It gilds e'en the humblest flower 
With charms to win a lasting love ! 

It stills the babe on parent's knee, 

And elates the son of labor ; 
10 



146 TONES ON THE HARP. 

It bids the slave from bondage flee, 
And sternly wield freedom's sabre. 

Oh, Music ! theme of angels bright ! 

"What unlimited power thine ! 
Thy voice, when gay, makes darkness light ; 

When sad, robs heaven of its shine ! 



to . 147 



TO . 

Yes, thou art pledged to love but one, 
Till thy sweet life's declining sun 
Drops clouded or serenely bright 
Into the grave's mysterious night, 

While I must mourn and bear my part 
Of hopes forlorn, and hush my heart 
Whene'er it breathes a thought of thee, 
Long dearly loved and lost to me ! 



148 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THOUGHTS WHILE GAZING ON A LILY. 

Fair flower, I would you were an altar 

For nuptials decked : thy fragrance, incense ; 
And she, in bridal robes, to falter 

In my glad soul a vow so intense, 
That thou, oh, ancient jewel, sparkling 

With thy pristine light, sweet evening star, 
Would pause to hear, and then, rejoicing, 

Bear the tidings to strange worlds afar ! 



DAYBREAK. 149 



DAYBREAK. 

Now the nocturnal goddess, in drippling vest, 

Quickly seeks her cavern' d couch ; her dusky trail 

Yet lingering on the mountain's dewy breast, 
Curls before the orient softening gale. 

rhe gray queen now usurps the ruling power, 
And marks with anxious eye the heralds in the east ; 

Lo ! her cheek how pallid, as from yonder tower, 
With purple gilt, gleams the victor's flashing crest ! 

T is dawn ! Aurora shakes to the balmy blast 
Her golden curls, and waves her glistening hand ; 

ffer swift, proud, dappled steeds obedient haste 
Along the amber crescent to her command. 

ITe just ! what a scene of glorious splendor ! 
Wake, mortal, thou whose heart shields an artist's soul ! 



150 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Dispel thy vision, murmur not how tender — 

Haste ! oh, hasten ! and reach thy heart's cherished goal ! 

In the eastern sky behold yon world of sheen ! 

There a lake of blue, by mist-clad banks half bound, 
With islands, a picturesque distance between, 

And amber lights, and deep purple shades around ! 

Here, shaped like the infant moon, a golden strand, 
Profusely kiss'd by silver-crested ripples, — 

Observe its border, how magicly planned, 
With drifts resembling numerous pebbles ! 

Beyond, a sombre plain, stretching to the base 
Of yonder mountain, crowned with blazing spires, 

Which fling a maroon shadow across the space 
Beneath its awe-inspiring sunlit fires ! 

Great heaven ! how lovely must be thy features, 
When thy veil displays such matchless sublimity ! 

What sacred joy must swell the souls of creatures 
Permitted to gaze on thcc for eternity ! 



DAYBREAK. 151 

Oh, frail pilgrim of the future — ray deathless soul ! 

Cast off the shackles that fetter thee to earth, 
And soar, with Hope, where brighter planets roll, 

High above the miniature world of thy birth ! 

Shadows fade ! the lake of blue, the golden strand, 

The mist-clad banks, the isles, the lights and shadows 
bold, 

The fire-crowned mountain, high towering and grand, 
Are lost, sunk, and quenched in an ocean of gold ! 

Lo ! the G-od of Planets, o'er the yellow deep 
Grazing on his daughter Earth with kindling eye ! 

Lo ! the mist upon her breast, just woke from sleep, 
Rising like an incense vast to his throne, the sky ! 

Now all is clear ! the tinted clouds, sunny-faced, 
And crimson streamers in gorgeous piles are furled • 

'T is day ! brilliant as ever dawned in the east, 
To wake to light and praise a slumbering world ! 



152 TONES ON THE HARP. 



TO MARY. 

You remember, when first we met, 
The rose you gave in vernal bloom, 

Alas ! now droops ; and I regret 
Its fading leaves foretell its doom ! 

And as I mark its pale decay, 
A sadness steals upon my heart, 

To think and see all forms of clay 
Resemble it in whole or part. 

No more in its native bower, 
The lover's eye will fondly rest, 

To mark, at eve's declining hour, 

The bright dew sparkling on its breast ; 

Nor pause in meek admiration, 
To trace in its simple nature 



TO MARY. 153 

High heaven's sublime creation, 
Christ's hand in its every feature. 

Nor will its perfume scent the breeze, 
To kiss and fan the dreamer's cheek ; 

Nor soothe the troubled soul to ease, 
When sorrow shrouds and hope is weak. 

Ah, me ! 't is sad to contemplate, 

That whatever we fondly cherish, 
All, all must meet the common fate — 

All things born of earth must perish ! 



15-4 TONES ON THE IIARP. 



TO A BELLE. 

Stay thy steps, ah, giddy maiden ! 

Thou vain slave of modern taste ! 
Thou of folly heavy laden ! 

Thou of brow with jewels pressed ! 

Thou of mind an empty waste ! 

In thy path foam ruin's waters, 
In "torrents madly sweeping 

Broken-hearted sons and daughters 
To darkness never sleeping ! 
To night of endless weeping ! 

Pause ! for death is with thee ever ! 
He may claim thee even now ; 

And his pulseless hand forever 
Hush thy lip's exulting vow — 
Fix thy proudly arching brow ! 



TO A BELLE. 155 

Lo ! thy sisters, rich in wisdom, 

Journey on, with humble tread, 
Through this transient, earthly kingdom, 

To the vale of silence dread, 

To the temple of the dead ! 

Follow thou their footsteps meekly, 

Follow thou their precepts wise, 
Follow thou with patience humbly, 

Follow thou in sinless guise, 

To our Father in Paradise. 



156 TONES ON THE HARP. 



TO A SLEEPING GIRL. 

Rest in calm, softly sleep ! 

Angels fond sweetly keep 
Bright vigils o'er thy guileless slumber, 

Gentle maiden ! 

Sweet, sweet may thy dreams be, 

And may their visions be 

All pleasing to thee, 
Lovely sleeping, sweetly dreaming, 

Gentle maiden ! 

And light as the ripple, 
O'er thy snowy temple, 
Of that fair braid of thy golden hair, 
Gentle maiden ! 
Be thy destiny's strife, 



TO A SLEEPING GIRL. 157 

Be thy sorrows through life, 
Be thou maid or wife, 
Lovely sleeping, sweetly dreaming, 
Gentle maiden ! 



158 TONES ON TIIE HARP. 



SONG. 

Come, fair love, while the moon is high, 
And hushed in sleep the tempest's chime ; 

My white-sailed bark awaits hard by, 
To bear thee to my native clime. 

The blue sea's calm as sleeping child, 

Not a ripple is on its breast, 
Save along the far rocky wild, 

A breath lulls the sea-fowl to rest. 

My cottage white, close by the beach, 
Awaits its fair and blooming bride; 

And glowing hearts still anxious watch 
Our coming, o'er the dreaming tide. 

And maidens twine the bridal crown 
Of flowers, culled on Dora's crest, 

To bind my Mary's locks so brown, 
And greet her queen of all the guest. 



I OLA. 159 



IOLA, 

THE BARD'S LAST SONG. 

Come, dear harp of many a song, 
In fond youth's unclouded summer; 

Though shattered now, and silent long, 
One sweep — then we hush forever ; 

'Tis for the lost in other days ; 

Softly, oh, my soul, breathe her praise ! 

Since last I heard her living voice, 
Long years have fled on time's pinion, 

And many gems of my heart's choice 
Have sunk, for aye, in oblivion ; 

Yet still Iola's memory chaste, 

Is an oasis in the waste ! 

Nor can the ruthless brow of time 
Frown from out my soul her image; 



i 



100 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Nor fortune fair, nor want, nor clime 

One sacred lineament pillage, 
While this frail mould of breathing clay 
Braves the fierce storm of life's affray. 

And if there be, as I believe, 
A G-od in yonder blue expanse, 

It ends not with the voiceless grave, 
Nor in that mysterious trance 

Where spirits linger till the last 

Sun sets, and earth and death are past. 

Nor was she dear to me alone ; 

Oft have I seen around her tomb 
Big tears fall fast — affection's own — 

From many hearts in sorrow's gloom, 
Albeit on earth there was no heart 
One dear kindred sob to impart. 

She had no kindred from her birth ; 

'T was then her blue-eyed mother pressed 
Her babe, for the last time on earth, 

To her fond heart, then sank to rest, 



TOLA. 161 

Just as an April tearful moon 

Told on the dial night's solemn noon. 

She was the last of a hold race, 

Whose honest hearts throhhed for freedom, 
And time loud echoing through space, 

Shall shout their deeds in years to come, 
When kingdoms shall tremble, and slaves 
Lie shroudless in unhonored graves ! 

For souls yet in the womb of time 

Shall fan to light their smould'ring fire, 

And avenge on thrones red with crime, 
Their bloody fall with sword of ire, 

And wipe, upon the battle plain, 

From freedom's brow, the reeking stain. 

Iola's land shall yet be free ! 

Her silent harp shall sing once more ! 
Her banners float o'er land and sea ! 

Her people shout for evermore 

" God and Freedom ! the shamrock green!" 

Our mottoes fair — our hearts their screen J, 
11 



L62 TONES ON THE HARP. 

( )li ! would that I could truly paint 
Her image fixed within my heart, 

Or could express, in language quaint, 
Each winning grace, and guileless art, 

And gentle word, and pleasing thought, 

Which made a palace of her cot. 

Oh 1 she was fair in every plight ; 

Her brow was like the maiden snow, 
While descending in fleecy white, 

From the vast ethereal bow, 
E'er earth's brown lips doth rudely woo, 
And kiss away its spotless hue. 

Her eyes were like the friendly stars 

That beam on earth when frowning Night 

Sits on her sombre throne, and bars 

Her portals against day's cheering light, 

And no meek-eyed moon looks loving 

On the mourner's path nor dwelling. 

Her cheek outvied that glowing hue 
Which softly paints the eastern sky, 



iola. 163 

When Aurora opes her eye of blue, 

And flings her locks of golden dye 
On the zephyr's balmy wing, 

Which fans the brow of fragrant Spring. 

Her lip, the ruby, with slight curl, 

Incessantly, in .playful wiles, 
Displaying teeth, the purest pearl, 

In an ocean of sunny smiles — 
An ocean, when its waves sleep fast, 
Glassing heaven's cerulean vast. 



• 



Her breath, the perfume flowers cast, 
At dawn of summer's finest day, 

On the amorous, sighing blast, 
As it pursues its lambent way 

Through wilds remote, where Nature dwells 

Sole queen amid her floral dells. 

Her voice, the softest melody, 

At twilight's tranquil hour of peace, 

Breathed in the sweetest symphony, 

O'er the slumbering tide's waveless space ; 



164 TONES ON THE HARP. 

When mermaids tune the vocal shell, 
All hushed the billow's sobbing swell. 

Her hair, a flood of glossy ripples, 
Black as the ebon wing of Night, 

Flowed o'er her calm, classic temples, 
And round a neck, the fairest sight 

That ever lit the chaste desire 

To wake the muse's sacred lyre. 

Her form was graceful and refined 
As e'er bedecked a child of clay, 

And had all symmetry combined 
Which artists linger to portray, 

And the while feel their souls expand, 

And inspiration nerve their hand. 

Oh ! she was sinless as the dew 
That spangles the emerald hills, 

When gray dawn banks the heavens blue, 
And morn pours forth in golden rills, 

And amber clouds, with tresses white, 

Hang blushing crimson in the light ; 



IOLA. 165 

Or as the waves, the spotless waves, 

That laugh along the western deep, 
When Sol stoops from his throne, and laves 

His refulgent brow, as they leap, 
To catch his farewell, burning kiss, 
Then quiver with ecstatic bliss. 

'T is done ! the last expiring note 

Dies trembling on my joyless ear; 
The vital tide ebbs, and remote 

Melancholy, like shrouded bier, 
Comes 'twixt my soul and joyous light ! 
Farewell, dear harp ! again 't is night ! 



16(3 TONES ON THE HART. 



SONG OF THE WARRIOR BARD 

Whatever fate befalls thee, 
Away, thy country calls thee ! 
And when her foes oppose thee, 

Strike! strike for liberty! 
When cannons boom the loudest, 
And the smoke of battle shroudest 

The flag of liberty — 
Let thy bosom be her shield, 
Thy battle-cry never yield, 
• While tyrants stand the field, 

Opposing liberty ! 

When the dreadful strife is done, 
And the merry booming gun 
Tells -a battle nobly won 
For dearest liberty — 



SONG OF THE WARRIOR BARD. 167 

Should generous fate reserve 

Thy heart's vital spark and nerve 

To feast of liberty — 
Mothers will fondly bless thee, 
And happy children kiss thee, 
And maidens fair caress thee, 

The brave of liberty ! 

Or should thy voice still aiding, 
While thy form prostrate bleeding, 
And thy last bold look pleading 

The cause of liberty— 
The deeds will live in story, 
Thy name in fadeless glory, 

Still linked with liberty ! 
Whatever fate befalls thee, 
Away, thy country calls thee ! 
And when her foes oppose thee, 
' Strike ! strike, for liberty ! 



168 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THE PHANTOM. 

Darkly, darkly around my heart 
Steals a shadow chill and drear, 

When I see true friends depart, 
With a sigh and swelling tear. 

That loveless phantom, chill and drear 
Is of death, with pulseless hand, 

Pointing to a shrouded bier, 
With his fatal striking wand. 

Ah ! then I weep for other years, 
When my heart was blithe and free ; 

Yet I smile oft through my tears, 
On glad faces which I see, 

Of the friends I loved in boyhood, 
Now sleeping 'neath the willow. 



THE PHANTOM. 169 

Hard by a murmuring flood, 
That wanders by their pillow. 

Thus it is, when sorrow deepest 

Wraps the soul in sable gloom, 
We feel that joy the sweetest 

Which arises from the tomb. 



170 TONES ON THE HARP. 



POTOMAC. 

Goal of the patriot pilgrim ! 
River of the free ! old Potomac ! noble stream ! 
No more thy waters reflect the red man's wigwam, 
Nor gambol on thy genial shores his swarthy young, 
Nor wakes his wild war-whoop the slumbering echoes 
In thy solitudes. 

Harsh time and a paler race 
Have changed the gorgeous wildness of thy scenery, 
And robbed thy ancient banks of their majestic 
Forests, to lean upon thy venerable heart, 
And cleave thy yielding bosom with their giant limbs, 
And erect marvelous and fantastic mansions, 
High as their towering pride ! 

Yet there remains 
Of novelty and awful grandeur sufficient 



TOTOMAC. 171 

To satisfy the eye of genius, and entrance 
The soul of Nature's lover. 

But these are needless : 
Thy renown will slumber when yonder flashing sun 
Casts his expiring look upon the fainting dust 
Where trembles the last lone soul of man ! 

Thou hast borne 
Upon thy breast Freedom's grave and mightiest Chief, 
And sweep'st in solemn grandeur by his honored tomb ! 



172 TONES ON THE HARP. 



SOFT WEATHER. 

Oh ! I'm weary, very weary, 
Of this weather, wet and dreary, 

Hanging on ! 
Rain, sloppy rain, day and night ; 
For a fortnight near, or quite, 
We have plodded without light 

Of the sun ! 

Should you travel along the street, 
Everybody you chance to meet 

Has the pouts ! 
For it is splash ! splash ! in mud ; 
And again a dirty flood 
Finds the crevice that ain't good 

In your boots ! 



SOFT WEATHER. 173 

Iii that warehouse across the way, 
(Which is placarded, by the way, 

" Selling out !") 
Stands the merchant, with his nose 
'Gainst the pane, in pale repose, 
On the gutter as it flows, 

Looking out ! 

Now his lips are busy moving, 
And I know that they are saying 

" Awful times !" 
While he reckons loss and gain, 
With a nervous twitch and strain, 
On the links within his chain, 

As if dimes ! 

Now he is pacing to and fro, 
And sets his finger, with a blow, 

On his nose, 
As he reads, with eyes askew, 
A queer-looking billet-doux ; — 
There's a note to-morrow due, 

I'd suppose ! 



174 TONES ON THE HARP. 

Oh ! he's tired, very tired, 
Of this weather, all bemired, 

Hanging out ! 
For there's "nary" thing doing ; 
Everybody seems rueing, 
Whether up or down going — 

In or out ! 

Lo ! here comes sweet Arabella, 
Beneath a blue silk umbrella, 

Dripping wet ! 
I can not behold her face ; 
Still I know her by her pace, 
And that dainty frill of lace, 

And her feet ! 

Ah, the Ladies ! — bless their gizzards !- 
With the cunning of old wizards, 

Take such pains, 
With hoops and other fixings, 
Round the middle of their stockings, 
At puddles and at crossings, 

When it rains ! 



SOFT WEATHER. 175 

Ah, me ! that shy and winning grace, 
And that dear flush upon their face, 

Like a light ! 
When the men — wicked sinners ! — 
With eye of wary gunners, 
Ofttimes neglect their dinners, 

Taking sight ! 

Oh ! I'm weary, very weary, 
Of this weather, wet and dreary, 

Hanging on ! 
For there's nothing in the news ', 
And I'm quaking in my shoes 
With a fit of queerest " blues," 

Looking on ! 



176 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THE JILTED LOVER. 

Well ! by the right, 't is passing odd 
How women act when they are sure 

That man forgets to love his Grod, 
Endeavoring theirs to procure ! 

'T is but a summer's day since last 
Yon moon beheld a girl recline 

Her head upon my throbbing breast, 
As if her heart were wholly mine ! 

And now she lists with anxious ear 

Unto the love another speaks, 
Nor heaves a sigh, nor drops a tear 

For him whose faithful heart she breaks ! 

Ye high suspended stars, that hold 
A brilliant and unchanging course, 

And thou, most constant moon, behold 
The wreck of love's unmerited curse ! 



TO A COQUETTE. 177 



12 



TO A COQUETTE. 

Ah, girl ! why vainly trifle thus ? 
Why use thy beauty as a curse ? 
Why exult in its fatal spell? 
'T will make thy breast a future hell ! 

When thine eye lacks much its fire, 
When thy smile begins to tire, 
When the rose deserts thy cheek, 
And the lily forsakes thy neck ; 

When thy brow has less command, 
When thy language is less bland, 
When thy form lacks its symmetry, 
And thy charms seek obscurity; 

When thy motion lacks its grace, 
When thy step forgets its pace, 



178 TONES ON THE HARP. 

When the spell of youth is o'er, 
And thy voice is sweet no more; 

When thy hand is never sought, 
When thy name is seldom thought, 
When thy form needs assistance, 
And suitors stand at distance ; 

When companions of thy youth, 
Maidens full of love and truth, 
Live a life of tranquil bliss 
'Neath a husband's daily kiss; 

When no husband's kiss is thine, 
When no arms around thee twine, 
When thy bosom's. cold and void, 
And thy heart begins to chide ; 

When the lovers who now sigh 
For a glance of thy bright eye, 
Point you out to their compeers 
As the belle of other years ; 



TO A COQUETTE. 179 

When their sly and meaning sneer 
Greets your melancholy ear, 
And their fond and steady gaze 
Speaks another maiden's praise; 

Ah ! then you will rue the day 
When you deemed it pleasant play 
To win and crush noble hearts 
With your vile coquettish arts ! 



180 TONES ON THE HARP. 



AT ANCHOR 



Hark ! the winds, with sullen whiff, 

Whistle by fits a solemn dirge 
Around yon gaunt and shelving cliff, 

Where the red pharos winks and flares, 
The red pharos blinks and glares, 
And now and then fiercely stares, 
Out on the billows' toppling verge ! 



II. 



Hark ! the harsh, discordant screech 

Of the curlew among yon crags 
Which skirt the bleak and barren beach, 
Where the gulls for food immerge 



AT ANCHOR. 181 



In the lazy, lagging surge 
That sobs and sucks in each gorge, 
And oq the shelly strand rakes and drags. 



in. 



Lo ! where the moonlight shaft reclines 

Upon the fretful, shifting swell, 
Which moans anon and hoarsely whines, 
And again, in wild disport, 
Climbs the wall of yonder fort, 
And licks the lip of yawning port, 
Where red-throttled cannon belch and smell. 



iv. 



That is our earthly heaven ! 

'Tis there our living hopes do dwell ! 
But when these ties are riven, 
And we launch in mystery, 
On the future's hidden sea, 
From whose tide we cannot flee ! 
Where its port, or its shore? who can tell? 



182 TONES ON THE HARP. 



MEMO 11 Y . 

In twilight hours of mournful thought, 
When hope seems in the darksome tomb, 
And hapless throbs the aching heart 

O'er joys long fled 

With the dead ; 
Then memory lights the dreary gloom, 
With some ray of former gladness, 
Which shone in hours void of sadness, 

In the happy time long past, 

Too dearly cherished to last ! 

We hear again the tones oft heard 
In the far distanced dream of youth, 
And see again the lips we loved 

Smile sweet once more, 

As of yore, 
As memory lifts the veil of truth, 



MEMORY. 183 

With mild and love-compelling hand, 
And strikes the urn with magic wand, 

Where rest those treasured flowers, 
Culled through life in happy hours ! 

Ah ! who would ask oblivion's waves 

To drown the sorrow-laden past, 

If with the tears we'd lose those smiles 

Which light the gloom 

Of this tomb ! 
'Twere woful gaining Lethe's vast, 
If from its dim, abyssmal wave 
We were all powerless to save 

Those gems long loved and dearly 

In the casket of memory ! 



184 TONES ON THE HARP. 



I KNEW HER WELL WHEN BUT A CHILD. 

I knew her well when but a child, 
With laughing eye, a heaven blue, 

And ruby lip that ever smiled, 
And rippling hair of bonny hue. 

'Tis past; for now she strives to check 
The big, bright, trembling tear 

From rolling down her troubled cheek, 
While inquisitive eyes are near. 

When o'er her brow with anguish fraught 
There steals that melancholy mood, 

Which holds her long in silent thought, 
As if enchanted where she stood. 

Yet through her tears her eye is bright, 
And has a magic in its glance ; 



I KNEW HER WELL WHEN BUT A CHILD. 185 

For in its depth there dwells a light, 
Fixed as yonder blue expanse. 

That light is love ; and he, for whom 
She has lived and loved for years, 

Is wedded now ; ah, fatal doom ! 
Must her true heart expire in tears? 



186 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THINK OF ME. 

Think of me in thy waking hour, 

When the day-star fades, and morning's ray 
Lights the streamlet, herb, and flower, 

And in the noontide flush of day ! 

Think of me when the pale eve light 
Silvers the dew-drop, leaf, and tree, 

And when the shades of pensive night 
Rest on "the hill-side, vale, and lea ! 

Think of me when serene repose 
Infolds thy form in fond embrace, 

And dreams are thine, and they disclose 
Visions of hope, and love, and peace ! 

Think of mc should thy will or chance 
Lead thee in thine own Laid t* si 



THINK OF ME. 187 

Or journey long o'er seas, perchance 
To stranger climes far, far away ! 

Think of me whatsoe'er thy lot, 

Wheresoever thy dwelling be, 
In tinseled hall, in humble cot, 

Or pillowed on the lonely sea ! 

Oh, think of me in every hour, 

When thy heartfelt thoughts are given 

In prayer to Him, the living Power, 
Our " Father who art in Heaven \" 



188 TONES ON THE HARP. 



THE LINK THAT BINDS. 

Where the far-famed Potomac's noble tide 
Silently sweepeth in its ancient pride 
Along Old Dominion's prolific verge, 
Ere while it meets, far down the briny surge 
Of ocean's ruffled front, 

There is a grave, 
A modest grave, where Vernon's willows wave ; — 
Thither the Northern sons are wont to wind 
Their eager steps, with grateful hearts, to blend 
With Southern sons their voice in praise, and shed 
Commingling tears o'er the faultless dead. 
There discord ends ; there North and South are one ; 
The link that binds : the ashes of their Washington. 



A RHYME. 189 



A RHYME, 

ADDRESSED TO A DANDY, WHILE HE WAS DRESSING FOR A PARTY. 

A-hem ! if I remember right, 
You said that "hop" comes off to-night 
At Madame Pug's — that dame so trite 
With notions high — yea, not a mite 
Beneath the range of Franklin's kite, 
That bottled the electric light 
Which gave to science such insight 
As startled knowledge with affright ! 
Her niece is fair, so gossips cite, 
And some do say (perhaps through spite) 
That you behold her with delight ; 
And when the dancers take respite, 
You shuffle her clean out of sight, 



190 TONES ON THE HARP. 

In some dark nook where comes no light, 

And hug her, faith, with all your might ! 

You go ? " Well, yes !" Ah, that is right ! 

Come, rig thyself, and take thy flight, 

In Shanghai coat, and pants as tight 

As ever spad, in vainest plight, 

Encased his pins on gala night ! 

And for the lack of woman's right — 

A dainty bag of lily-white 

To dust thy brow — just take and smite 

It well with flour-bag, or indite 

Thy will, or thine own shadow fight ; 

Or think on headless ghosts, to fright 

Thy tawny cheek, and make it white 

As goblin lank at pale midnight, 

Gallanting round a graveyard site, 

Locked arm-in-arm with fairer sprite ! 

For, now-a-days, 'tis impolite, 

And most vulgar, for any wight 

To look robust, or speak or write 

Of good, substantial food, or bite 

Hog meat or sheep, for fear they might 



A RHYME. 191 



Give his person a shade not quite 
What passes current in the elite — 
Which would, perhaps, incur a slight, 
F faith, and veto, too, outright 
To their assemblies an invite 
To shake a foot with lady bright, 
And feast a squeamish appetite ! 



192 TONES ON THE HARr. 



TO 



When by love thy dark eyes lighted, 
Turn their glowing look upon me; 

How I gaze in them delighted! 

How my heart is drawn towards thee ! 

When with fitful blushes burning, 
Thy soft cheek I fondly kiss ; 

And thy lips the pledge returning, 
Fills my heart with love's excess ! 

When with loving arms I clasp thee 
Fondly to my throbbing breast, 

With what sweet delight I press thee — 
Lost in joy too great to last! 



THE TWO T.RTDES. 193 



THE TWO BRIDES. 

'T WAS eve, a quiet eve, and clear, far in 

The red man's summer. In the far southwest 

Some drowsy cloudlets, like weary children, 

Lolled on the skirts of parting light. The sun, 

Low on the western rim, a parting look 

Threw back; and 'ncath the love-light of his gaze, 

Old Terra's hills immense, her pausing seas, 

And listening forests, blushed ! 

That hour, within 

God's house, two brides before the altar stood : 

One as the lily fair ; and drooping her blue 

Eyes, veiled 'neath their sunny fringe, she breathed her 

Vows, and from her parted lips did music 

Flow — music like that oft heard in silent 

Vale when April weeps, and her warm tears swell 

The sweet melody of timid streamlets — 

While on her tender cheek a crimson flush 
13 



194 TONES ON THE IIARP. 

Would gleam or wane, and the rose — the sweet moss 
Rose — soft pillowed on the white swell of her 
Bosom fond, would tremble, just as the tide 
Of feeling did flow or ebb. The young fawn's 
Heart was full of love ! 

The aged pastor 
Smiled. His hand then laying softly upon 
Her head, and lifting high his saintly brow 
To heaven, he spake: "'Tis well, my child, 'tis well!" 

The other stood as stands the sculptured stone, 
A presence cold, with calm and lofty brow 
Upraised, and pride sat in her midnight eye 
And on her red lip's curl. She gave response ; 
But her voice had a strange cadence, all foreign 
To the soul, and her words, coldly uttered, 
On the listening ear expired, in the heart 
No echo awaking ! 'Twas conscience crushed 
And honor bartered for a golden cage ! 
The aged pastor sighed, then bending low 
His saintly brow, his locks long streaming shook, 
And by their dumb language spake, "'Tis ill! 'tis ill!" 



SERENADE. 195 



SERENADE. 

Wake, love, wake ! the night wind's sighing, 
The young mooa looks lovely and bright ; 

The stars with bright eyes are gazing 
On the beautiful face of night ! 

List, love, list! the nightingale sings, 
And the rose droops with pearly dew; 

The zephyr sweet odor brings 
From flowers of many a hue ! 

List, love, list ! in this hour of love, 

To his voice that is ever true, 
True as yonder stars are above — 

My love is eternal for you ! 

Then, dear one, give some token, 

Or a tone of thy voice, to cheer 
My throbbing heart that has spoken 

The love it has cherished so dear ! 



19G TONES ON TIIK I1AIU', 



ANNIE OF WASHINGTON 

I have been some time past straying 

Through the great in former times ; 
I have seen the queen-like seeming 

Of the maids in other climes j 
But a fairer girl, believe me, 

Mine eyes have never seen, 
In those lands of ancient splendor 

That boast of beauty's queen, 
Than thee, my lovely Annie, 

My bonnie blue-eyed one ! 
In this world you have no equal, 

Bonnie Annie of Washington ! 

Thy calm brow excels in whiteness 

The lily's spotless hue ; 
And thine eye of clearest brightness, 

Chaste heaven's deepest blue 



ANNIE OF WASHINGTON. 197 

Sweeter than the thrilling music 

Of streamlet's wild, soft glees, 
Or the song of harps at distance, 

Soft borne upon the breeze, 
Is thy voice, my fairest Annie, 

My bonnie blue-eyed one ! 
And thy smile is that of heaven, 

Bonnie Annie of Washington ! 



1.98 TONES ON THE HARP. 



TO 



On ! that you could once believe nie, 
Once my heart's deep feelings view ! 

There is none more fond, believe me, 
There is none with love more true ! 

How imperfect is expression 

My emotions to impart ! 
Language cannot make confession 

Of the feelings in my heart ! 

Mark my brow, how pale — I languish 
In cold silence and despair; 

Look in my eyes, and read the anguish 
Thou hast caused to linger there ! 

Now my bosom, all aglowing 

With what rapture who may tell ? 



TO 



When thou'rt kindly on me gazing, 
With those eyes I love so well ! 

How my heart, tumultuous throbbing, 
Responds to thee with each pulse, 

As I gaze on thee, still loving 
With a deep and fond impulse ! 



199 



200 TONES ON THE IIARP. 



LINES. 

There is a love of noble birth, 
For affections have distinction, 

As well as other sweets of earth, 
That saints and angels sanction. 

'T is a jewel of worth untold, 
In the sacred soul deep hidden ; 

And when all clay in death lies cold, 
'Twill live eternal in heaven. 



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